Growing Up Quick
by Kitty Mitty
Summary: A night of celebration turns into something unexpected which neither involved was prepared for.  Can they learn to become the men they need to be, or will they allow their differences destroy not only each other, but an innocent life as well?  SLASH DMHP
1. The Boy Who Was a Father

**Disclaimer:** Characters, settings, etc. belong to JK Rowling and associates. No money is being made.

**Warnings:** DM/HP SLASH, mentions/BIG hints at Mpreg, adult language, and things that should not be read if you do not enjoy the slash world.

**Chapter One: The Boy Who Was a Father**

_Hello_,

I realise you probably think it odd to be receiving a letter from me, of all people. And yes, I know you recognised the sender of this letter without looking at my signature at the bottom: you scoff at my handwriting enough in class to be able to recognise it anywhere. If this isn't the case, then surely you know my owl, who has always stuck out like a broken broomstick during the morning post. Speaking of which, if you wouldn't mind allowing her to stay for a night before sending her back, that'd be a help, as it was a long flight for her and she could use the rest.

Anyway, on to the reason I'm sending this letter to you. And if you're still reading, then thank you for not chucking the parchment into the fire the second you'd known who sent this. I'm not trying to waste your time or to fool you or anything; it's rather important you know this, you see. It's ... well, I imagine it's going to be quite a shock for you, so you'd best maybe be sitting down as you read. I know it was shocking for me, even more so than what it's going to be like for you, I reckon. After all, I'm the one who – er, you'll understand soon. I figure you'll be quite angry with me when you finish this letter, and you have every right to be; even I can admit that. I really should have sent this sooner, but with the way things were left between us – have always been between us, I suppose – it proved nearly impossible for me to pluck up the courage and write this in the first place, and actually I'm quite proud of the fact that I've managed this far. You see, I'm not so much for words – actually, you _do_ see, as you seem to enjoy reminding me every chance you get that I'm totally useless with anything – and writing letters and such has never been my forte. Usually I manage to get a friend to do it for me, but she's the one making me write the letter in the first place, and absolutely _refuses _to have any part in it whatsoever. Generally she's quite helpful with things like this, and I'm only just realising now how much I depend on her for this sort of thing.

And now I'm rambling. Sorry, but I ramble when I'm nervous; apparently even in writing. I'd scrap this parchment and start over, but I've discarded four attempts already, and no one will lend me any more parchment. I haven't been to Diagon Alley yet to get my supplies, you understand, and I've used the rest of my parchment up on that bleeding Potions essay that that greasy-haired git _–_

And I'm rambling again. Sorry. I guess now you're fairly irritated with me; possibly you're tapping your foot and huffing in that annoyed way you do whenever someone's said something particularly stupid in front of you. And I'm not trying to sound stupid, honestly – I'm just pants at things like this, and well, I'm not so much looking forward to your reaction. It all has to do with the last time we saw each other. Yes, _that _time. Back in September, during that ruddy celebration after the snake bastard was killed. When you and I, er – well, I'm sure you know when I'm talking about; after all, you were also participating in ... _it. _

Merlin, I can't even say we've shagged without feeling flushed. Pathetic of me, eh? I've no doubt you're having a real good laugh over all this: after all, it was you who made it perfectly clear that it was a one off, and that we should just forget it ever happened and never mention it again. And I was happy to do that -- well, not happy, but willing. Didn't really need you spreading that all 'round school, now did I? Though I guess in the end it didn't matter whether you did or not, what with the whole Death Eater fiasco, and then me being forced into hiding for the remainder of the year. Thinking back on it now, I suppose that that had been for the best, getting away from all that could remind me of that night, making it easier for me to forget it even happened in the first place.

Only, I couldn't. I couldn't forget. I tried – Merlin, I tried so hard, but it was no use. I don't know what it was, but I couldn't get it out of my mind, no matter how much I wanted to. And then ... and then it became impossible to forget about the whole situation. How could I, when every time I was sick, or craving cheese and marmite sandwiches slathered in chocolate sauce, or having to expand the waistband of all my trousers, or sleeping the entire day away, or having cramps and bloating, I was forcefully reminded of that night? Every time I felt that odd bubbly feeling in my stomach, every time my back ached and my ankles swelled, every time I had heartburn and indigestion was like a Bludger to the face, because it made me remember what had happened that night, and the fact that I was still in hiding, going through it all nearly alone, and you were still in Hogwarts, oblivious to everything.

I have a feeling you've realised what "everything" is by now. I'd be surprised if you hadn't already: you are, after all, one of the smartest wizards in our year, even if you are an utter prat about it. Loath though I am to admit it, you are rather clever, aren't you? You're also fairly predictable, I reckon. In fact, at the very second you're reading this, I think I know what you're reaction is: you've either responded like the typical Slytherin – clever, sneaky and all that rot – and have taken my words at face value, not doubting the truth of my situation but doubting whether or not you're involved with it. If that's the case, then thank you for believing me, and yes, the baby is yours, you stupid git. How many boys d'you think I've let shag me?

If you didn't react the typical Slytherin, then you most likely reacted the way I did – stunned disbelief, followed quickly by a large bout of denial. If this is the case, then guess what: this is not a sick joke. You put me up the duff! Congratulations, you're a dad. A father at seventeen, and the baby's not even a pureblood. Disappointed?

All right, I apologise for that. There's no need to rub it in that you got me, a half-blood, preggers, is there? It's a pretty complicated situation all in itself, purity issues aside, isn't it? But it's happened, and there's no changing it, you know.

So anyway, if you're not so stunned as to be able to do simple maths, you've summed up that it is impossible for me to still be carrying the baby. Good on you if you had, as I'd not been able to form coherent thoughts for at least a week after I'd learned. If you hadn't, well its true. I had the baby May first, five weeks before her due date. She came out small but healthy, which is good, as I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd come out with extra fingers and a tail, knowing your family's history with inbreeding ...

Again, apologies. Old habits die hard and all that, you know? I suppose I'm still feeling a little resentful at the fact that for the past three months I've been taking care of a baby that's half yours, and you've not even met her ... and I have no right to be angry with you, do I? It's my fault that you've not known about her. I am sorry about that, yeah? I mean, you deserved to know, and that's really the only reason that I was able to write this letter in the first place. Whether or not I wanted to, you should at least know that you've got an heir out there; a baby daughter with your hair, nose and tendency to be overly-dramatic. I'm sorry it took me so long to write you: blame my pride, if you want. Stubborn Gryffindor to the end, that's me. And ... maybe blame my fear. Fear of what, I'm not exactly sure: all I know is that, though she's a bit of a handful and it is more than a little terrifying thinking that I'm in charge of keeping someone alive and healthy for the rest of my life, I really am quite taken with her, and I'm not too keen on anything happening to her. You understand that, right? Well, maybe you don't: as far as I know, you haven't got any other illegitimate children running 'round Hogwarts.

Before I sign off and send this, I want to stress that this letter isn't being sent with expectations. I know you didn't ask for any of this (though a protection charm would have been helpful at the time, particularly since I didn't even _know _wizards could get pregnant in the first place), and I don't expect you to drop everything to be a part of the baby's life. We are pretty damn young, and parenthood is the hardest and scariest thing I've attempted to date, including the whole Voldie debacle. If you want to be a part of her life, then I'm willing to work something out. She does deserve two parents, after all – even if we can't stand the sight of each other for more than five minutes unless hearty amounts of Butterbeer and punch shot with Firewhiskey are involved. If you don't want to have anything to do with her, then all right. At least I told you, and my conscience is now cleared. And if you're at all curious about anything financial related – I won't demand a Knut from you, don't worry. I've heard of your ... difficulties during and after the war, and if the rumours are true, then you need to keep what's left of your Galleons for yourself. And if it sounds like I'm rubbing it in, well – you _have _acted rather shoddy to the Weasleys in past years, haven't you?

Again, I'm sorry I've kept this from you for so long, and feel free to write back, though no Howlers, yeah? The baby doesn't sleep enough as it is, and I doubt very much you yelling obscenities at me through the post will help any to rectify that.

Suppose I'll see you on the Hogwarts Express, September first.

Sincerely Yours,

_Harry Potter_

"Harry?"

Harry Potter was pulled from a restless and rather uncomfortable sleep by the voice of one of his best friends speaking alarmingly close to his ear. With a surprised yelp, the black-haired boy jerked upright from the large Transfiguration tome he'd been face-planted in, almost immediately regretting this action when the severe crick in his neck became known with a particularly vicious throb. Clapping a hand over the offending area he twisted around in his seat, glaring blearily through crooked glasses at Hermione Granger, who had quickly backed up to avoid a collision with the crown of Harry's head.

"Hermione!" he croaked while rubbing furiously at his stiff shoulder, trying to work out the Sickle-sized knots he felt there. "You trying to kill me? You nearly gave me a hear attack!"

"Well, how was I to know you'd react as though you'd seen Voldemort's ghost?" she retorted, folding her arms across her front and matching the green-eyed boy's glare. "I'd only been saying your name for five minutes, after all, and it's not as though I hadn't been yelling it to the high heavens, either. What, have you started stuffing cotton in your ears before bed, now, or is it merely the fluff that fills your head beginning to leak out?"

_Someone swallowed a Humour Potion this morning_, thought Harry grumpily. _Fluff, indeed. _So he'd turned into quite the heavy sleeper this past summer, that was no excuse to scare five years off his life!

"There was still no reason for you to sneak up like that, you know," Harry's mouth voiced his thoughts mutinously, undoubtedly guaranteeing an eye roll and a "tsk" from his counterpart. Nevertheless, he pressed on. "Not a good way to wake someone up, I can tell you. I could have hexed you on instinct, and then what would you've done?"

"Oh, please." Hermione tsked and rolled her eyes. _Shocking_, thought Harry sarcastically to himself. "Firstly, I'd be able to block anything you tried to throw at me, as seconds before you were dead to the world and stampeding Hippogriffs wouldn't have woken you. Secondly, you're over-reacting."

"No, I'm under-sleeping," Harry corrected, suppressing a yawn as he straightened his glasses and absently wiped the drool from his chin with the back of his hand. "I haven't had a full night's sleep in almost four months. Forgive me for feeling a little less than thrilled at being so rudely awoken from much needed slumber. And you clearly underestimate my hex-throwing abilities, Hermione," he added after a slight pause, in deference to his pride.

Hermione actually hmphed at this, a sound that did nothing to improve Harry's fantastically mulish mood. "Well, so sorry to startle you, then," she snapped, and the raven-haired boy could almost taste her indignation, she was laying it so thickly onto her words. "Next time I'll just thwap you over the head with your broomstick to wake you up, shall I? Or maybe drop a bucket of ice water over you instead, hmm? Would that be more to your liking, Mr 'I've made my bed, but am going to complain every second I lie in it'?"

_Oh, here we go. _Groaning, Harry slumped his shoulders and attempted to burrow into the chair back, preparing for a long one. Spending most of last year in the company of a mothering, albeit slightly disapproving, Molly Weasley had gotten Harry more than used to the "you've had your play, now it's time to pay" lecture: he'd been hearing it ever since he'd revealed his surprise pregnancy to the few close people in his life. Every time Harry had bemoaned his fate while spending quality time with the toilet, Mrs Weasley had been there with a wet flannel, switching back and forth between cooing and tutting while wiping sweat and sick off Harry's face. When Harry had gotten into a spectacular row with the mirror above the mantel because it had called him "Tubby", Mrs Weasley had rushed over to intervene, shushing the cackling mirror and managing to give Harry a very meaningful look that quite obviously said, "Well, you _are_ seven months along, dear." When Harry had been up to his elbows in dirty nappies and shite, very near tears and desperate for some sleep, Mrs Weasley had graciously taken over for the afternoon, but only after humming in a way that plainly inferred, "Shame on you for thinking it's all just daisies and roses, you know." And then when Hermione had shown up mid-July with her "I told you so" air, patented glares and rehearsed scoldings ... well, it was all Harry could do to keep from hexing the women's mouths shut every time they drew near.

That's not to say Harry didn't appreciate having Mrs Weasley as a surrogate grandmother to his daughter, or Hermione's role as an overly-caring friend. Without their help – all the Weasleys' help, really – Harry wouldn't have lasted a week on his own. If it weren't for Mrs Weasley's afternoon sittings, or Hermione's evening tutor sessions – Harry with a book in one hand, baby in the other – he was quite sure he would have floundered in all the summer homework his professors had assigned him. If Ron hadn't been brave enough to give up his attic room for the summer and kip in the twin's old room – amongst poisonous packages, random sizzling sounds emitted from an ominous-looking Muggle stop-watch, and a horrendous smell of spoiled doxycide – or if Mr Weasley hadn't found his collection of old Muggle music boxes that helped soothe the baby back to sleep after her three o'clock feedings, then the green-eyed boy would have been wailing constantly himself. Hell, if Fred and George hadn't developed their new line of baby-safe products ("Ear-Ache Begone Solution – One Drop And The Screaming Stops!", "Anti-Rash Nappy Powder – Keeps The Bum Smooth And The Baby Quiet!", and "Teething Remedying Gel – Helps Growing Of Teeth For Tots, And Parents Dealing With Dribble Spots!"), then Harry would have marched himself to St Mungo's and asked for a bed in the Janus Thickey Ward ... but only after he cursed himself dizzy, of course.

Harry's summer, and the eight months leading up to it, had been very different from the ones he had experienced in previous years. He hadn't finished off his sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with his friends and classmates as he had first planned: the Death Eaters had seen to that. Harry had been at Hogwarts hardly two weeks when there had been an abduction attempt by a rogue group of Voldemort's followers, who had all managed to evade capture by the Aurors after their lord's final downfall. Ultimately the plan for revenge had failed, as the leaders of the group had been the elders Crabbe and Goyle, and though they had managed to allude the Aurors' grasps after the fall of their master, they had made it perfectly clear where their sons had received their half-wit from, when Harry had distracted them by pointing behind them and shouting, "Look! A new Dark Lord!" and then making a fairly easy retreat back into Hogwarts castle while the two older wizards glanced stupidly over their shoulders. They and four of their comrades had all run off when they'd seen Harry disappear through the castle's main doors, knowing that any place with Albus Dumbledore residing in it was not a place they wanted to enter, and thus had ended that particularly pathetic threat to Harry's life.

The whole affair had been rather anti-climatic, to say the least, and had left the inhabitants of Hogwarts, professors included, rather bemused. Though the actual attack on Harry had failed miserably, leaving the black-haired boy with nothing more than an insignificant burn on the inside of his ankle from when Crabbe senior had accidentally dropped his wand, Professor Dumbledore had still insisted on Harry immediately relocating to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, to wait it out until the rest of the Death Eaters had been captured. After this particular decision from his headmaster, Harry had caused quite a stir, not liking the thought of being left alone in a dreary old house that had far too many unhappy memories, and was severely lacking in friendly inhabitants (unless doxies, ghouls and Boggarts could be constituted as "friendly"). He'd found it quite unfair to be forced into hiding after having finally destroyed the most evil wizard of the age, thinking that it was high time he be allowed to start living his life without having the fear of being offed lurking around him wherever he went. After all the physical pain, emotional turmoil, and feelings of great loss Harry and many others had suffered at the hands of that snake bastard, the very last thing he had felt like doing was being separated from what he had considered to be his only home, and the remaining people of what he thought as his family.

In the end Harry had reluctantly agreed to be hidden away, but only after a rather lengthy discussion with his constantly level-headed headmaster, whom had promised it would only be a temporary solution, and assured Harry that he would not be left completely alone in the decrepit House of Black. It was then Harry had learned that his third year Defence Against the Dark Arts professor and friend to his late parents, Remus Lupin, had agreed to tutor him during his absence from Hogwarts, and though it was a far cry from spending his time with his best friends, in his beloved school, Harry enjoyed the soft-spoken man's company all the same, and happily waited out the capture of his incompetent abductors, confident that it would only take a few weeks' time, if even that.

Harry should have realised then that nothing in his life ever turned out the way it was first expected. When the last of the Death Eaters had _finally_ been rounded up by the Aurors – Antonin Dolohov having been found living incognito as an eighty-year-old witch in Northern France mid-March – the green-eyed boy's plans had changed yet again. After spending nearly six months at Grimmauld Place, Harry had decided not to return to Hogwarts for the remaining three months of his sixth year, instead opting to relocate to the Burrow with Remus, to spend some time with the Weasley parents in their much more warm and welcoming home. The reason given to the student body of Hogwarts, not to mention the whole of wizarding Britain, for Harry's continued absence was that he had been suffering from magical exhaustion due to his final confrontation with Voldemort, and was finishing the year in a quiet location with relatives, so as not to over-exert himself. The real reason, of course, had been that Harry was over five months pregnant, and though school robes would have easily covered his slightly bulging stomach in the beginning of his return to school, it would have eventually become fairly obvious that he was expecting, the closer they neared his due date in early June.

After Madam Pomfrey had made the startling discovery that Harry's bad case of stomach flu was in fact him entering his second trimester, the adults in his life (Mr and Mrs Weasley, Headmaster Dumbledore and Remus Lupin) had all sat down with him and explained that in no uncertain terms could his pregnancy be revealed to the wizarding public. Not only would it cause a complete political upheaval between Harry's Ministry supporters and their opponents, what with the sixteen-year-old saviour of the wizarding world having a baby only months after ending a war, but it could give a Dark wizard with a wand and a grudge the perfect opportunity to attack Harry while in such a vulnerable state.

There really hadn't been a choice for him to go back to Hogwarts at all, no matter the glamours he could use to conceal his expecting state, and in a complete contrast to his reaction to being sent to Grimmauld Place, Harry had readily agreed to stay with the Weasleys, trying to look at it as an extended holiday that involved mood swings and back aches. Remus had graciously continued his tutoring of Harry for the remainder of the year, Ron's mum had taken it upon herself to get Harry through the pregnancy in one piece, and in all honesty the green-eyed boy hadn't really minded being kept locked away in the Burrow all that much. Remus and Mr and Mrs Weasley had proved good company; Remus with his helpful words of wisdom and quiet wit, Mr Weasley constantly asking absurd questions about mundane Muggle appliances, and Mrs Weasley mothering and fussing over Harry's eating habits. Hermione and Ron had spent most of their free weekends visiting with Harry as well; Hermione keeping him up to date with class lectures and Ron relaying Quidditch matches in minute detail, so as not to make the other boy feel left out of his favourite past-time. He'd appreciated every effort his best friends went through to keep him feeling involved, and with few exceptions, including furtive looks between one another when Harry refused to talk about the other person involved in the conception of his baby, and quick, edgy glances toward his gradually swelling stomach, the two Gryffindors had been nothing but supportive of Harry and his child.

And Harry had needed all the support he could find. Being told that he had a small life growing inside of him had been far from expected; he hadn't even known that in the wizarding world males could conceive and give birth in the first place. The concept had been so far-fetched, so completely and utterly _out there_, that when Madam Pomfrey had first explained the magical ramifications that could take place inside a wizard if they had unprotected sex with another male, Harry had not believed her, and had thought it all a rather sick prank being played on him. The thought of him growing fat and then eventually popping out a baby through _he didn't even know where _had had Harry's head reeling for days afterwards, and he had stubbornly _refused_ to acknowledge the fact that that was what had been causing his nausea and severe cramping. It had taken days of yelling down the roof of Grimmauld Place, crying on any shoulder he could find (Harry later blamed the hormones), and countless hours of reading through dusty old books Remus supplied him with before he could finally accept the fact that wizards could have children. Then, after all that, it took an additional two days of Harry sitting alone in his darkened bedroom, with one hand splayed across his still flat stomach, until he understood that it had indeed happened to him, and that in a little over six months he was going to have a baby.

That life-altering realisation had been accompanied by many a sleepless night, countless temper tantrums, and numerous visits to the toilet that had nothing to do with morning sickness and everything to do with gut-wrenching anxiety. Harry, a boy who had had next to no experience with sex and relationships, pregnant at sixteen? The irony had been almost comical: that Harry would have one drunken night, _one_ lapse in judgement, and end up pregnant with the last person he would ever pick to have a baby with would have made Harry laugh hysterically ... if it had happened to anyone other than him.

For Harry had known that he would never be able to rely on the other person involved with the conception; their history together was rocky at best, and the other involved would see their baby as a mistake, an abomination against wizarding society. Harry couldn't even bare to think of what they would say about him and their child, because though he had known from the beginning that he was far from ready to take care of a baby on his own, Harry had not once been able to consider the little being inside of him a mistake. A pregnancy had certainly been unexpected, and Harry was unprepared to deal with it, that much he could not deny, but the reality was that he had created a life, and that life was a part of him; a tiny little baby that was a part of his family. That thought alone had been enough to have Harry decide to keep the baby and raise it, with or without others' help, no matter what the consequences would be.

Of course, his worries of taking care of a baby by himself had all been for naught: he should have known from the beginning that his friends and the people who mattered to him most would never abandon him. During his pregnancy, he had prepared himself for taking care of a child as best as his situation had allowed him, and it had all been done with the help of others, including attending biweekly visits with Madam Pomfrey, Hogwarts' matron; adhering to the strict diets she had put him on; conceding to one of Mr Weasley's suggestions at keeping a preggers diary (Harry had _refused_ to call it his "mother-to-be" diary); allowing himself to be kept under very close observation by both Remus and Mrs Weasley; and reading every book on male pregnancies and baby care Hermione looked up for him. Ron had solemnly offered to help Harry with nappy-changing, and had been there with his best mate as Mr Weasley had sat Harry down and explained to him the finer points of fatherhood. In fact, Harry had been so dedicated to giving his baby a good head start in life that he had even spent countless hours with his feet in Mrs Weasley's lap, listening raptly as the motherly woman spoke in great detail of the pregnancies and deliveries of her seven children. Afterwards, Harry had felt confident in what to expect for the remainder of his time expecting -- though he could have lived without the detailed description of Mrs Weasley's troubles with haemorrhoids while carrying Fred and George.

Actual child care was what had had Harry worried the most during the months leading up to the birth. After all the books and pamphlets he had read through and memorised, he had felt thoroughly squicked about all the things he needed to remember for taking care of a baby. He had never known that there was a common ailment that sometimes caused newborn babies to cry for no apparent reason, or that putting them to bed on their stomachs and with blankets and plushies could actually _suffocate _them. Reading that his heartbeat was a useful tool to help calm his baby down had been a fortunate titbit to find, and he had been quite confident when it came to learning how to support the baby's head and neck while holding it, but he had nearly lost his lunch while reading up on a graphic description of the _soft-spot _on the top of a newborn's head, and when he had realised what he needed to do if ever his baby could not poo ... well, he had sincerely hoped that his child never had that particular digestion problem.

And those were just some of the Muggle things to remember! Wizarding babies were a whole different Quidditch match, Harry had soon realised. Not only could he _not_ perform strong magic on or around his baby for the first year of its life, for fear of interference to the baby's developing magical core, but he had also been informed that it was quite natural for young babies to experience magical "outbursts" (how big of an outburst he was to expect, the books ironically never mentioned) as they grew accustomed to their magic, though that was only if, Merlin willing, his child didn't come out a Squib. To be sure that his baby did have magical abilities and was controlling them properly, for the first year he'd be required to take his child to regular check-ups that included magical screenings and aura readings, and apparently sparks shooting out of his baby's fingers while they were crying was a natural occurrence and a good sign that things were progressing and developing well, and was to be expected for the first six months of his baby's life. It had all left Harry rather wide-eyed and nervous, especially when Madam Pomfrey had left him after a particularly informative check-up with a brisk, "Not to worry, Mr. Potter: wizarding parents deal with magical babies every day. It's all completely natural, and I'm sure Professor Flitwick will teach you some excellent flame-retardant charms to help you along."

With all the reading he had done, and all of Mrs Weasley's stories he had listened to, and all the warnings and concerned clucks Madam Pomfrey had supplied him with, Harry had known going into it that fatherhood was going to prove a very difficult job indeed, but he honestly had had no idea just what a wake-up call having a baby could truly be. Not only did it make him realise that he now had to take care of himself properly (a thing that had never overly-concerned Harry, as up until the previous summer he'd been prepared to die before he turned eighteen), he also now had a tiny little human being completely dependent on him. Also, he'd been quite alarmed to realise, St Mungo's Healers did not exactly give witches (or wizards) time to adjust to this earth-shattering realisation. After having his daughter at nearly half-past one in the morning, amidst close friends in a heavily-warded room to keep away prying eyes and reporters, he had been thrust back into the real world carrying a bundle of squirming blankets by lunch time the next afternoon, with hardly a crash course in nappy-changing, and some ridiculously complicated folding-technique called "swaddling".

He had arrived back at the Burrow that afternoon a new father, feeling both elated and scared, all the information he'd read up on during the pregnancy racing in circles through his dazed mind. After everyone had had a proper coo over the newest member to the Potter family, Mrs Weasley had handed Harry a few bottles of formula, patted him encouragingly on the cheek, and then sent him upstairs to spend the rest of the day and night alone with his new daughter. Bonding time, Ron's mum had called it. Total spaz-fest is how Harry would have better described it, after he'd learned the hard way that babies didn't have off switches, and that their favourite past-time – second only to sleeping – was wailing their little lungs out. The rest of that first day had been spent with Harry either pacing the length of the room with his crying daughter in his arms, rocking furiously in the chair placed by the window as he tried not to drip formula all over her chin while he fed her, or slumped over the side of her cot, staring in awe at the tiny little person he'd brought into the world; feeling both excited and terrified about how the rest of the day would go, and if he'd actually manage to survive that first sleepless, nerve-fraying night.

But survive the first night he did, as well as the next, and then the next, and fifteen weeks later Harry was finally beginning to feel as though he was getting the hang of the whole parenting thing. The scared thoughts and feelings – the nervousness at buggering up his daughter's life for good – were still there, floating in the back of his mind, and he doubted very much they would ever completely disappear, but for the moment he was quite content in just focusing on taking care of his baby, and reveling in the knowledge that there was someone in the world that would love him endlessly and with no expectations, no matter what he did to bollocks it all up.

Lost in his thoughts of the past few months, Harry failed to notice that his attention had noticeably wavered as well. It was only the sight of Hermione beginning to fluff up like an angry cat, due to his lack of response to whatever she had been saying, that had the green-eyed boy snapping back into reality with a quick shake of his scruffy head.

Deciding that on second thought it was best to end this dispute quickly and leave Hermione the victor, lest his ear be lectured off, Harry hastily asked, "Er, so why was it you were told to come and wake me up?" trying to convey an apology for being so shirty with his well-meaning friend with a smile that felt more tired than winning.

Hermione paused in her puffing up and frowned, knowing perfectly well that Harry was merely looking for a getaway opportunity, but she soon enough relented – as Harry knew she would – sighing in a very put-upon way.

"Breakfast is nearly ready," she informed him briskly as she strode across the room to the curtained window and yanked the drapes open, filling the neon-orange room with bright, mid-morning sunlight. "We're heading to Diagon Alley right after we've finished eating, and Mrs Weasley said to make sure you have the baby ready before you come down for food."

"We're going to Diagon Alley?" Harry blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his eyes to the new intruding light source. He shielded his face with his hand impatiently and squinted up at Hermione's silhouette. "Since when?"

"Since Professor Dumbledore owled last night and suggested you take that daughter of yours out and into public before heading off to Hogwarts," Hermione informed him promptly. "And really, it's a very good idea if you think about it, Harry." She walked over to Harry's trunk and began digging through its contents, presumably to find something for the black-haired boy to wear for the outing. "That way less people will be surprised at seeing you show up on the platform with a baby, and therefore less likely to mob you. Quite ingenious really, don't you think?"

Harry didn't think this a very ingenious idea. In fact, he thought it a rather shoddy idea, and it must have shown on his face, because when Hermione looked back over her shoulder at him, her breath puffed out in exasperation and she shook her head.

"Don't even think about trying to get out of this, Harry Potter," she warned him, her finger waggling threateningly in his direction while the other hand rooted around for a clean pair of trousers. "You've holed that poor baby up in this house for long enough. She needs to get out and start interacting with other people, not to mention getting used to surroundings different from the Burrow. She's not used to any other people and places, and for Merlin's sake, the only sun that poor baby's seen is through a window!"

Harry felt vaguely insulted by what his friend was saying. Really, he thought it a bit much for Hermione to start berating his parenting skills. He was, after all, quite new at it, and the only major incident he'd had thus far was when he'd woken up in the middle of the night during his third week as a father, briefly fearing that he'd rolled over and onto his own daughter while he'd slept. After ten frenzied seconds in which he'd desperately searched through the bed clothes for his lost baby, he'd glanced over to the cradle and spotted his daughter resting peacefully and safely, completely oblivious to her panicking, sleep-crazed father.

"I just don't see why it's necessary to take her to such a ... _crowded_ place for her first outing," said Harry stiffly as he heaved himself out of the chair he'd fallen asleep in. He hummed in satisfaction as dozens of little pops and cracks sounded up and down his spine when he stretched his arms high above his head. "And after all," he continued, scratching his side and suppressing a yawn, "the more people that see me with her means the more photographers and reporters trying to write cracked up stories about us, and splashing our picture all over the _Daily Prophet_. Funnily enough, that doesn't sound very appealing to me."

To Harry's utter surprise, a look of sympathy instead of exasperation flitted across his friend's face.

"You know that's going to happen no matter what," said Hermione softly, reasonably, as she straightened up from the trunk, walked back over to Harry and placed a hand comfortingly on his arm. "You're Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world. The Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, and whatever other ridiculous names they've come up for you this week. You showing up with a baby that has your eyes is going to cause quite a stir, no matter when or how it happens."

When Harry gave no sign of agreeing with her, the bushy-haired girl tried a different approach. "I know that you're worried about how all this is going to affect the baby, and that alone makes you a top dad, but sadly even the great Harry Potter won't be able to stop this from eventually happening. Not everyone is going to understand, Harry, and eventually you'll need to accept that." She gave his bicep a reassuring squeeze before continuing hopefully, "But just think, at least you'll be able to control when and where everyone finds out about her. You know as well as I do that Dumbledore would eat Fawkes before allowing photographers and reporters anywhere near Hogwarts, and the security at King's Cross makes it nearly impossible for _students_ to get onto the platform, let alone people who aren't authorised to be there. And with any luck, we'll be in and out of Diagon Alley before the reporters can even catch wind of you being there, and you'll have worried all for nothing."

This Harry severely doubted, as reporters had been sniffing around for him ever since he had gone into hiding the year before, and one word about him being out in the streets would surely have them flocking to Diagon Alley within minutes, blood-thirsty for front page news and wielding their Quick-Quote Quills and cameras. But Hermione did have a point about Dumbledore keeping reporters out of Harry's and his baby's hair once they reached Hogwarts, and personal experience had him understanding quite well how difficult the barrier entrance onto platform nine and three-quarters could be to get past if one was not wanted there. There was a slim chance that he and his daughter could avoid getting caught by the reporters -- very slim, but there all the same.

Still feeling a prickling of unease at the base of his spine about the whole outing, though not as severely as moments before, Harry again smiled at Hermione, this time managing an easy grin with only a hint of tiredness peaking out around the edges of his eyes. Hermione smiled back at him, before squeezing his arm a final time, laying the clothes she'd picked out for him on the bed, and turning to the door.

"Don't forget to have the baby ready for the day before you bring her down," she reminded him as she opened the door.

Harry's grin quickly morphed into a grimace as he glanced to where his daughter was resting.

"But Hermione," he protested as he turned back to see the girl step out into the hallway. "It's nearing nine o'clock, and she's actually still sleeping for once. Do I really have to –"

"_Yes_, you really have to wake her up right now," replied Hermione, before Harry could even finish his plea. She frowned and looked disapprovingly at him for the fourth time in as many minutes. "This is why she doesn't have consistent sleeping patterns, Harry. Ron's mum has been telling you since you got back from hospital that you need to get her into a schedule by waking her up at certain times, and I read in that one parenting book, _Caring for a Magical Baby_, that –"

"All right, all right, I'll wake her up," Harry interrupted hurriedly, keen on keeping Hermione away from lecture-mode. "Just ... tell everyone I'll be down in a few for me, will you?"

"I will, though try to be ready in ten minutes, Harry, the Weasleys have been waiting to start breakfast."

She left after this last comment, and as Hermione's footsteps faded down the rickety staircase, Harry approached the cot which held his slumbering daughter and glanced down inside it, his breath hitching as it always did whenever he looked upon his sleeping baby.

Lydia Anne Potter, Lydie for short, was the most beautiful sight Harry had ever laid his eyes on. With tiny and delicate features, pale downy-soft skin, emerald green eyes that were still changing from the deep blue they had begun as, and tufts of fine blonde hair that was like silk to the touch, Harry's baby girl personified cute. She was the epitome of adorable; even the medi-witches and Healers at St Mungo's had admired his baby daughter, one even going so far as to suggest he name her "Belle". Harry had been sorely tempted to do just that, as the second he'd laid eyes on her he'd fallen in love with the tiny, wailing, perfect baby girl, but when he'd really had a good look at her (after the Healers had washed away the goo and he hadn't been so stuffed full of pain-relieving potions), he'd decided that she was most definitely a Lydia.

He'd actually been quite relieved when her name had come to him so decisively: he'd spent the better part of three months leading up to the birth worrying over whether the first decision he made as a parent would be an utter disaster because he named his baby the wrong name. He'd pored over baby name books that Hermione had fetched for him, both wizarding and Muggle, looking for the perfect name to give his soon-to-be son or daughter, but hadn't been able to satisfy himself with making such a large decision for someone he hadn't even properly met. He'd decided to keep his options open, pick out around a half-dozen names he thought were decent enough for his coming child, and hoped that he could make the right choice once he was holding his baby in his arms. Three and a half months later, he was still happy with Lydia Anne, and had high hopes that it would stay that way.

Being a father was a feeling that Harry couldn't even begin to describe. The incredible feelings of awe, fierce protectiveness, and all around _rightness_ he had felt when he'd first looked at his baby had been more than enough to make all the pain and strife of the past months worth going through. When he had first held Lydia, his throat constricting and wetness rimming his eyes as her warbling little wails subsided as soon as he cuddled her close, Harry had known instantly that that was where he belonged, what he was meant for. In that perfect moment, he had been given a second chance at having the family he'd always wanted, had _dreamed_ of having as a little boy growing up in a small cupboard; hoping that one day there would be someone to love and be loved in return. She was a gift that Harry would cherish for the rest of his life, and the knowledge that she was his and would love him unconditionally, no matter his faults or mistakes, continuously left him breathless with emotion.

Of course, as Mrs Weasley was prone to say, being Lydia's father was most definitely not "all daisies and roses." Lydia cried. She dirtied her nappies ... a lot. She enjoyed spitting up all over Harry right after he'd changed into his third shirt of the day. She slept when Harry couldn't, and was awake and hungry when he was barely conscious. She hated being washed to the point of screaming during her entire bath, no matter how hard Harry attempted to calm her down. She yowled like an injured cat when Harry didn't pick her up quick enough from her cradle, and generally didn't like anyone else feeding her, so that job was usually just her father's, three o'clock feedings and all. She was absolutely terrified of Harry's owl Hedwig, and so the green-eyed boy had been forced to ban his beloved pet from visiting him in the attic room; something which thoroughly miffed the snowy owl to the point of her cuffing her owner on the head with her wing whenever he tried to approach her. Lydia was also complete hell to deal with while she was ill, though Mrs Weasley had assured Harry that most babies were, when he'd come to the older woman in near hysterics during his baby girl's battle with a nasty ear infection at five weeks of age. But most of all, she demanded attention like none Harry had ever seen, knowing perfectly well that she was surrounded by people – besotted father notwithstanding – who would happily supply her with all the attention she desired. At fifteen weeks of age Harry could already tell, by a look on his daughter's face he sometimes caught her wearing, that Lydia Anne Potter knew perfectly well she had her daddy wrapped around her little finger.

Oh, and wrapped around her finger Harry was. One innocent look from those big, shining green eyes and he'd be falling all over himself trying to give her what she wanted. The sleepless nights, constant worrying about her health and happiness, and general feelings of near-hysteria that were mandatory with parenthood would momentarily disappear with one toothless smile, or a gurgled sound, or a tiny hand grasping his finger with surprising strength. When impossibly small feet kicked water all over his trousers, Harry simply gave his daughter a love-sick smile and continued washing her. When curious hands grasped the bridge of his spectacles and nearly pulled them off his face, Harry laughed with delight and praised his clever daughter. When Lydia woke up smelling like a troll's dirty trousers, smiling in a way that told Harry she knew perfectly well of the present she'd made for him, he held his breath, bent forward and blew a loud raspberry on his stinking daughter's stomach, just to hear her make those adorable gurgling giggles. And when his baby fell asleep on his chest after a long bout of crying, one of her small fists clutching at a loose fold of his shirt, Harry felt his heart expand and his insides warm, and he knew in that moment there was nowhere else in the world he would rather be than lying there with his daughter safe and in his arms, her tiny little body rising and falling with every breath he took.

And there was nothing quite like watching his baby daughter sleep, Harry mused to himself as he gazed down into Lydia's cot, watching her stomach rise and fall gently as she blissfully slept on. Of course, the reason he enjoyed watching his baby girl while she slept was mostly due to the fact that she was more or less silent when sleeping, and although Harry absolutely adored Lydia when she was all smiles and gurgling noises and curious eyes, those occurrences were almost always followed by a large dose of howling. Admittedly, Lydia's cries could be constituted as cute, in that her wail sweetly warbled near the end, her adorable little face always scrunched up and reddened, and her lower lip trembled when she was feeling particularly fussy, but it was in all honesty more ... loud, than anything else, and with the lack of sleep Harry had been dealing with for the past few months, he was always quite keen on avoiding crying-Lydia at any cost.

Which was why he was still grimacing slightly as he bent over the cot and very gently lifted his daughter up and into his arms, silently pleading with Lydia to not start crying the instant she woke up. The grimace quickly slipped away though, to be replaced by a look of soft affection when he cradled Lydia up against his shoulder, one hand supporting her bottom and the other gently cupping the back of her head.

"Good morning, lovey," he murmured into baby fine hair, his voice full of the giddy delight he was feeling as his daughter made a kitten-like mewl and nuzzled into his shoulder sleepily, blissfully whimper-free; though he still swayed on his feet slightly and rubbed soothing circles onto his baby's back -- just in case.

"No crying this morning, I see. This mean you're ready to greet the day, then? Or maybe you've seen how tired Daddy is and decided to let him have a bit of a lie-in? Is that it, petal? Are you just trying to look out for Daddy's health?" He pressed a kiss to the top of Lydia's head as he side-stepped to the change table next to Ron's dresser on the adjacent wall. "Very thoughtful of you, Lydie. Daddy needed his rest after that particularly eventful night we had. Why you enjoy bonding-time at half-past two in the morning is beyond me." He grinned when a small fist grasped at his shoulder as though in answer, and he gave his daughter's brow another kiss before gently laying her on the change cot, careful to mind her head and neck as he lowered her. He made quick work of the metal snaps to Lydia's pink onesie, and was soon removing the soft material from his daughter's wriggling body, pulling her tiny flailing arms and legs free and kissing each hand and foot once they were revealed.

"Don't you start, Lydie," he chided softly when Lydia's brow scrunched slightly over still-closed eyes and her lower lip began to tremble in reaction to the cooler air hitting her bare skin. He began methodically changing her nappy as he continued, "We've got a big day ahead of us, you know, and I'll not have you wailing throughout the entire thing. We need those vultures at the _Prophet_ to think you're all cute and cuddly, not a Dark witch in the making or any other rubbish stories they can come up with, just because they've caught you on a grumpy day." With accuracy only borne after three and a half months of constant nappy-changing, Harry had the soiled cloth plummeting into the waste bin next to the change table, a reflexive wince gracing his features when the bin burped happily afterwards.

"Now, keeping in mind that this may very well be your first press release, what d'you reckon will look better: another onesie for comfort's sake, or a terribly pink dress and bonnet that will be near impossible for me to put on you, but will have Mrs Weasley, Hermione and every other witch within seeing-distance fawning all over you?"

In answer, Lydia finally opened her eyes, blinking up at him in a way that said, "You dare suggest we not put me in the outfit that will garner the most attention? Bonnet and dress now, you silly git!"

Harry grinned largely. "Right, ridiculously cute dress and hat it is, then." He finished pinning the sides of Lydia's nappy together, landed a smacking kiss on her protruding baby belly, then turned to the old wardrobe next to the change table.

Was it odd to have such one-sided conversations with a fifteen-week-old baby, Harry wondered to himself as he fetched the dress and hat from the wide selection of baby outfits, all in varying shades of pinks and yellows, with a splash of Gryffindor red standing out in random areas. Ron had teased Harry about his conversations with Lydia, asking him if Muggle babies learned to talk at four weeks of age, but in all honesty the green-eyed boy didn't really know what the protocol was for talking to one's baby. Sure, all the books had said to "communicate" with the child for sensory development, but he'd never really understood what that meant. Did it mean speak to the baby normally, like you would a mate? Or maybe use softer tones or, Merlin forbid, that sickening baby talk Professor Dumbledore and – surprisingly – Ron were quite fond of? And what exactly was one supposed to say to a tiny human who couldn't answer back? And was Harry the only parent out there that had ever wondered about this?

Hermione had said he'd been over-thinking, when he'd asked her opinion after one particularly long conversation he'd had with his baby daughter, in which he'd pleaded with Lydia to go to sleep, and she'd instead continued to grab at his nose. Harry had found Hermione's reply a bit rich coming from Miss Must-Know-Everything herself, but his friend's next piece of advice, "Just do what feels natural, Harry, for Merlin's sake," had made the raven-haired boy relent, and he'd not really thought on the subject since.

"Suppose it doesn't really matter," Harry mused to himself as he began the difficult task of getting Lydia into an outfit that seemed to be all small openings and even smaller clasps. "It's not as though you actually have any idea what I'm saying any of the time, do you, duckie?"

A delicate sneeze answered him which, of course, was cause for Harry to grin a tad wider than before.

"Bless you."


	2. Surprise at Madam Malkin's

**Author's Note:** Thank you for the lovely reviews so far! I am positively GIDDY about the thought of people actually enjoying my story!

**Chapter Two: Surprise at Madam Malkin's**

By the time Harry had managed to get Lydia and himself dressed and downstairs, the rest of the inhabitants of the Burrow were already seated around the packed kitchen table and digging into Mrs Weasley's delicious-smelling food, talking loudly with each other in between bites. Mr Weasley and Remus were discussing the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures' new research group that was currently testing early-stage lycanthropy cures on infected Kneazles; something which Hermione seemed to want to put her two Knuts' worth in about, but apparently couldn't manage to finagle her way out of her current conversation with Ginny, who appeared enthralled with gibbering on about whatever-it-is girls discussed with one another; and Mrs Weasley was quite obviously scolding Ron sideways for something the other boy had done, if the pink ears and look of pure relief on Harry's best friend's face when he saw the black-haired boy descending the stairs with Lydia was anything to go by.

"There you are, Harry!" Ron called out, patting the seat next to him enthusiastically and giving Harry a most desperate look. "Finally come to join us, eh? Have a seat, mate, and enjoy this fine breakfast Mum's made for us on this lovely morning."

"If you think I'll forget this just because you've buttered me up, you've another think coming, Ron Weasley," Mrs Weasley admonished her lanky son sharply as she doled some marmalade onto his plate. "We've not finished discussing your abysmal study habits, young man, not by a long shot." She turned in her seat to properly face Harry and greeted him with a warm and kindly smile. "Good morning Harry, dear. I've some bacon here waiting for you, and a bottle all made up for little Lydie."

"Thanks, Mrs Weasley," said Harry as he dropped into the seat next to his red-haired friend and gratefully accepted the bottle Ron's mum passed him. "It smells delicious. Morning all," he directed to the table at large. A chorus of, "Morning, Harry," echoed around the table in response.

"It smelled delicious a half hour ago, while Mum was making us wait for you to come down," Ginny offered waspishly as her greeting. Harry easily ignored the testy redhead, who had been acting tetchy around him ever since the beginning of the summer, and instead concentrated on getting Lydia settled comfortably.

"Give her here, mate," said Ron as Harry moved Lydia to the crook of his arm and expertly raised the bottle to her mouth one-handed. "I've mostly finished. It'd give you time to eat properly."

"You sure?" Harry looked doubtfully between his eager friend and his hungry daughter before reluctantly handing Ron the bottle. "You know how she sometimes can get when I'm not feeding her ..."

Ron dismissed Harry's words with an exaggerated eye-roll. "Nonsense! She loves being fed by her godfather. Isn't that right, you little bean, you?"

The redhead's voice immediately switched to "baby mode," as Hermione teasingly called it, the second he lifted Lydia into his lanky arms, and though the tiny baby made little fuss and latched onto the bottle presented to her hungrily, Harry warily watched Ron with his daughter. He wasn't so worried about the red-haired boy holding his baby daughter; on the contrary, the redhead took his duties as "Lydie's Godfather" (so he called himself proudly every time the little baby was mentioned) very seriously, and was constantly holding and playing with the young tot. It was just that Harry knew his daughter and how fussy she could be when it came to being fed by someone other than him, and he really didn't fancy ruining everyone's breakfast by having Lydia crying throughout it. However, it soon became clear to Harry that Lydia wasn't about to throw a fit, so he tucked into his breakfast with gusto, closing his eyes in bliss when the first delicious morsel made it into his mouth.

Breakfast at the Weasleys' was a small part of the day which Harry cherished. Growing up with the Dursleys and their rather less-than-cheerful breakfast rituals had left him more than a little awed and confused the first time he'd sat down to one of Mrs Weasley's wonderful morning meals, but he had quickly grown fond of the time spent laughing and eating with his all-but-adoptive family. Perhaps it was being surrounded by friendly teasing and cheerful faces instead of sneers and angry looks, or maybe being cajoled into eating third helpings of everything instead of being forced to watch his fat cousin consume all of his favourites while leaving none for him; whatever it was, breakfast at the Burrow had somehow managed to make the days seem brighter, easier, no matter how rough they started out in the beginning.

Apparently this morning Harry looked as rough as he felt, judging from Mr Weasley's cheerful comment directed toward him halfway through the meal. "Looking a little rough around the edges there, Harry," the older man called from the other end of the table as he nabbed some extra fried egg from the plate in front of him. "Don't suppose little Lydie kept you up a bit late last night?"

Harry snorted around a mouthful of bacon. "Try early," he grumbled once he'd mostly swallowed. "Woke me up three times last night. You'd think she was nocturnal, the way she acts at two o'clock in the morning."

"Ginny, stop scowling and finish your breakfast!" Mrs Weasley scolded loudly, directing Harry's attention to that end of the table, where he could clearly see Ginny's angry eyes glaring at him momentarily before she looked pointedly away and hunched over her plate.

"Was Lydie quite fussy last night, then, Harry?" asked Hermione, sounding interested as she nibbled on some toast.

"If she was, I didn't hear her," Ron proclaimed happily as he grinned down at the tiny infant slurping happily in his arms. "Slept like a brick all last night, I did."

"You sleep like a brick every night, Ron," said Hermione exasperatedly. "That's not news."

Ron looked slightly affronted. "And what d'you mean by that?" he demanded.

"Well, I don't remember _you_ waking up to help when Lydie had that crying spout last month that kept the house up nearly four nights straight."

"Silencing Charm," replied Ron cheekily. Hermione rolled her eyes and went back to her breakfast, apparently giving up.

"You know, she really should be starting to sleep through the night, Harry," said Mrs Weasley as she buttered some toast and placed it next to Harry's plate with a significant look at his baggy shirt. "Honestly, dear, it would be much simpler if you started to keep her on a sleep schedule --"

"I've been saying the same thing to him!" Hermione piped in, cutting the older woman off eagerly. "This morning, in fact, I was telling Harry just how advantageous it'd be for him if he could get Lydie in a sleep schedule. It's in every book about baby care. I read, just last week, that parents who develop sleep schedules with their babies actually –"

"I know what you're saying, Hermione, dear, I did it with all seven of my children, and I swear by it –"

Never having been terribly interested in anything scheduled, discounting Quidditch practises, Harry left the two women to their discussion and instead focused on the much more invigorating argument between Mr Weasley and Remus over the Quidditch World Cup, which had been held mere days before. It had been a very controversial match between the Falmouth Falcons and the Heidelberg Harriers, from a ruthless beginning to an adrenaline-filled end nearly six hours later; one that Harry had unfortunately missed, instead opting to stay behind at the Burrow with Mrs Weasley and a fussier-than-usual Lydia.

"I'm telling you Remus, that that last move by Squiggs against Wulstein was a foul! If he'd not rammed his elbow quite so viciously into the other Seeker's face, then –"

"And I'm telling _you,_ Arthur, that Wulstein flew right into it! It was not a deliberate move, and the referee called it right!"

"What _I_ can't believe is that Bleary got two Bludgers to the face, and _still_ managed to block Geis' shot! Talk about dedication to the game!" crowed Ron, his favouritsm toward Keepers shining through. Harry laughed around some half-chewed egg when the redhead's enthusiasm jostled Lydia, and the tiny baby gave Ron a distinctly cross look before latching back onto the rubber top dangling in front of her nose.

"She's most definitely her father's daughter," Remus commented lightly, also catching the expression on the baby's face. "Puts her stomach first and thoughts second," he explained with a small smile when he caught sight of Harry's questioning look.

Harry looked down at his nearly-finished plate and mentally shrugged, figured that the older man was probably right, and continued shovelling more food into his mouth at top speed.

"You know Harry, with all the food you pack in, you'd think you'd be taller," Hermione quipped lightly, a teasing smile playing about her lips as she sipped at her pumpkin juice.

Harry, who always felt testy and defensive when his small stature was mentioned in conversation, immediately retorted to her, "I'm taller than you, aren't I?"

A cattily murmured, "Hardly," from Ginny and a snickered, "If you discount Hermione's hair," from Ron had both Harry and Hermione glaring at the offending Weasleys, Remus and Mr Weasley stifling chuckles, and Mrs Weasley shaking her head and tutting.

"Enough of that, you two," she shot sternly towards her two children as she stood up from the table and began spelling the left-over food from their platters. "We've got quite the day ahead of us, and the last thing I need is you lot sniping at each other the entire time. Harry dear, if you've got Lydia ready, the pram was last seen in the sitting room, though with Fred and George's visit last night it could be anywhere. You've got her bag ready, haven't you? We'll be using the Floo, so mind you put up the Soot-Repelling Shields on it and the pram beforehand. Merlin knows what that baby thinks about getting soot in her hair."

The outing. Right. Harry had nearly forgotten. With a mental sigh, he finished his last bit of toast and resignedly pushed away his plate. The reminder of an impending trip to Diagon Alley had the Gryffindor boy wishing he hadn't eaten quite so much bacon quite so quickly, as it was suddenly feeling very heavy and lump-like in the pit of his stomach. It was hardly the best way to start off the day, and along with his exhaustion and the heated glares Ginny kept sending his way every so often, he had the sudden desire to whisk his daughter upstairs to the attic room and not come back down until September the first.

He had reluctantly agreed to go on the day trip mostly to get Hermione out of his hair, and though he abhorred the thought of him and his baby being plastered all over the _Daily Prophet _and scrutinised by the wizarding public, he knew getting out of this little jaunt would be an impossible task, with both Hermioneand Mrs Weasley acting as his opposing forces. And Hermione was right: he _had_ been keeping Lydia hidden from prying eyes for too long, and enough was enough, no matter how he tried to justify his reasons for dong so. It was time to get his baby daughter out into the sunlight and accustomed to the bustling nature of everyday life, and what it would be like when they went back to Hogwarts at the end of the month.

With that last thought in mind, Harry heaved himself out of his chair, plucked a newly-burped Lydia from Ron's arms and headed off in search of his daughter's pram, mentally preparing himself for what was sure to be a _very _long day.

Half an hour in, and every instinct Harry possessed was screaming at him to take his daughter back to the Burrow. The attention he and Lydia were receiving was worse than anything he had imagined, much worse than his first public appearance after the defeat of Voldemort the previous year. He couldn't decide which he disliked most: the backwards glances, the incredulous stares, or the furious whispering that had slowly begun to rise from the surrounding crowd of people. It had started the moment he'd stepped out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron, the feel of dozens of eyes following him all the way down the alley toward Gringotts Wizarding Bank, making his shoulders tense and his fingers clench tightly on the handle of Lydia's pram, his knuckles white with the strain. Little needle-like pricks jabbed their way up and down Harry's spine with every whispered word his ears detected, his teeth gnawed more viciously through the side of his cheek with every disbelieving look directed his way, and by the time he had left Lydia with Mrs Weasley, Hermione and Remus in the marble lobby of Gringotts, his right hand was shoved into the front pocket of his sweatshirt, gripping his wand tightly and silently begging him to hex the next stranger who so much as _breathed_ too closely to his baby. He hadn't even wanted to let Lydia out of his sight in the first place, and had been prepared to ask one of the Weasleys to stop by his vault and pick some money up for him instead, but Mrs Weasley had insisted that he went and retrieved the money on his own, after he'd snarled at a passing witch who had accidentally brushed up against the front of Lydia's buggy.

The thrilling ride down to his vault at neck-breaking speed in a metal cart with no driver had managed to settle some of Harry's jumbled nerves, and he'd felt much calmer as the goblin assisting him had unlocked his vault door and stepped back to let it swing open. His brief feeling of calmness had died a swift death, however, when he'd stepped into his dark vault and seen what was laying inside. He had suddenly felt very relieved that he hadn't asked one of the Weasleys to pick up his money for him, as sitting in the middle of the stone floor was a meagre little pile of perhaps two handfuls of bronze Knuts, a dozen silver Sickles, and seven gold Galleons.

Harry, who hadn't visited his vault in some time for fear of being attacked by Death Eaters while visiting Diagon Alley, couldn't believe his eyes as he got down on his hands and knees and desperately felt to the corners of the stone room, hoping to find a hidden Galleon, Sickle, _anything_. He found only cobwebs, and with the goblin's gaze boring a hole through his neck, Harry hastily scooped the entirety of the pile into a bag and stood up again, wiping dust from his trouser legs, trying to ignore the fact that his face was heating up with both embarrassment and shame.

How could this happen? How could he have never realised that he was so close to running out of money? What was left of his parents' fortune hadn't even filled his money pouch half-way; the rest of the gold was gone and spent, on years of Hogwarts tuition, school supplies and Chocolate Frogs, and as the control-less cart raced back to the main level of Gringotts, all Harry could wonder was where all his money had gone, how the hell he was supposed to care for Lydia when he could barely buy books for school, and why hadn't anybody told him before now that he was almost out of money?

He'd left Gringotts feeling worse off than when he'd entered, and the rest of his party had wisely chosen to not ask questions when they saw his dark mood reflected on his face. He walked a few paces behind the others, allowing them to create a path through the bustling crowd for Lydia's pram, and managed to easily ignore the whispers that continued to follow in his wake -- it was much easier to do, now that he had shock, mind-numbing worry, and fear for the very near moneyless future to concentrate on instead.

Mrs Weasley had decided that getting Flourish and Blotts out of the way first would be the best idea, as the shop was located right across the road from Gringotts, so that was how Harry found himself where he was now, navigating his daughter's pram through the winding, narrow lanes between towering bookshelves that touched the ceiling, all the while trying to discreetly make his way to the area where the second-hand books were displayed, in the very back of the shop. He easily avoided being spotted by Hermione, who had made a beeline for the "Newly Released" display in the front window, and Mrs Weasley had instantly directed Ron to the manager's desk with a sharp reprimand, as the red-haired boy had misplaced his booklist an hour after he'd received it. Ginny had wandered off to the Quidditch shelves at the far end of the shop after catching sight of a fit-looking boy perusing that section, and Mr Weasley had stayed outside in the bustling alley, keeping a look-out for any confused-looking Muggle parents to whom he could offer his assistance (while hopefully getting some dire questions answered about mixers before his wife noticed).

Thinking he had accomplished his task unnoticed, Harry made it to the back of the shop with minimal trouble, able to avoid bumping into a precariously wobbling stack of books on the edge of an equally wobbly side table. However, as he was surreptitiously searching for the cheapest set of books that were legible and wouldn't fall apart the instant he opened them, Remus Lupin's voice suddenly spoke out from behind him: "You know, Harry, I just remembered something. Because my transformation in July was so poorly placed, I missed your birthday party and, if I recollect properly, never gave you a birthday present."

His voice was as soft and light as was normal for the honey-eyed man, and when Harry turned around to look at Remus, the man's gaze was aimed at a collection of used quills in a nearby display.

Harry remained silent, wondering what Remus was getting at. The older man was still looking interestedly at the rumpled quills when he continued, "I apologise for not buying you anything before now, but perhaps a new set of school robes would do? I'm useless at shopping, you see, and I wouldn't know the first thing to get a teenaged boy."

This lightly-declared offer to help Harry with his spending had the boy feeling fairly amazed, and for a moment he just stared at the older man in silence, not knowing how to respond. He knew perfectly well what Remus was doing. The older man had been the one who had retrieved money from Harry's vault the previous year, and so he would know that Harry's funds were nowhere near what they needed to be to last him for the upcoming school year. The man also knew that Harry was far from naive, and must have realised that the green-eyed boy would see through what he was doing in a heartbeat, but nonetheless Harry, and his pride, appreciated the gesture from his parents' old friend, whether he was embarrassed to accept help from his tutor or not.

Not knowing how to convey his feelings of stuttering relief and appreciation, Harry merely nodded his head in silent acceptance when Remus finally looked his way.

The other man smiled jovially at him. "Excellent. I'll just go and make sure Molly plans a trip to Madam Malkin's before we leave, then, shall I? If you'll excuse me, Harry." And with that, Remus turned and disappeared around a stack of used Potions texts, leaving Harry standing alone in the back of the shop, a bemused sort of look on his face as he slowly looked down at the ratty Transfiguration text clutched in his hand. A rueful sort of smile slowly spread across his face, and though the feeling of sick worry was still laying heavily in the pit of his stomach, he managed to breathe a little easier than he had before.

After managing to procure a set of books that had the most chance of lasting through his last terms at Hogwarts, Harry directed his daughter's pram back to the front of the shop, where he met up with the Weasleys and Hermione in the check-out queue, and even managed to crack a smile at the assistant while his purchases were being rung up.

"You sure had an easy time with books this year, mate," said Ron as he, Harry and Hermione made their way out of the crowded Flourish and Blotts, to wait for the rest of the group to finish up. "What, d'you not have as many classes this year?"

"No, I've got the same as any year," replied Harry, trying to sound as off-hand as possible, and hoping his complexion didn't show how his cheeks and the back of his neck had begun to heat up.

Ron's brow furrowed in confusion. "That can't be right, Harry. You barely paid enough for the Transfiguration text, let alone Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions _and _Charms!"

"Well, I decided to buy slightly used books this year," said Harry, studiously ignoring Ron and Hermione's gazes as he stooped over Lydia's pram to check that she was fine.

"Slightly used – wait, you're not having money difficulties, are you, Harry?" asked Hermione, and just from her tone Harry could tell his friend was both surprised and worried.

"No, not troubles," said Harry hurriedly, feeling grateful that his head was covered as it was by Lydia's pram cover while he fixed her blanket and bonnet. "I just, you know, need to watch what I spend right now, what with Lydie and all. It's not a big big deal, just I want to make sure there's some breathing room, especially for when school's over in spring, that's all. No worries, honest." Harry really didn't like lying to his friends like this, but he felt it was better that he keep this new worry to himself for the time being. He wasn't in dire need of money at the present time; he still had some money extra now that Remus was paying for his school robes, and Harry had firm plans already formed to visit with Professor Dumbledore as soon as possible to discuss his options for the remainder of the year. He was sure his headmaster would be able to help him sort out a solution, and Harry felt that there was no reason to worry his best friends for nothing.

At least, he hoped.

"Well, I think it's a terrific idea for you to start thinking of the future, Harry," said Hermione approvingly. "Our last year at Hogwarts is starting in two weeks, and before we know it we'll be fully-qualified witches and wizards, and thrust out amongst the rest of wizarding society with nary but a few N.E.W.T scores and a pat on the shoulder in farewell. It will more than likely be a hard adjustment for many of us, especially for those whom haven't developed as maturely as the rest."

An indignant squawk from Ron told Harry that Hermione had most assuredly looked pointedly at the red-haired boy as she said that last bit. He shook his head in amusement and chuckled quietly as his two friends began to bicker in earnest.

"Ron! Hermione! Harry!"

Harry's amusement disappeared the same instant Hermione and Ron broke off their arguing. All three of them recognised that particular Irish lilt. With a vague feeling of impending doom settling heavily on his shoulders, Harry slowly straightened from Lydia's pram and together he, Ron and Hermione turned to see Seamus Finnigan waving madly at them from across the way. Harry felt something most unpleasant begin to churn in his stomach as he watched the male equivalent of Lavender Brown – Hogwarts' notorious gossip – make a bee-line for him, Ron and Hermione, a large, exuberant grin already visible on his face.

"All right, you three?" Seamus said cheerily as he strode up to them.

Ron gave a stiff nod in response, Hermione a weak, "Hello, Seamus." Harry said nothing at all, already feeling wary of his overly-talkative Housemate.

Seamus didn't disappoint. "Finally I've found some Gryffindors!" he crowed enthusiastically once he'd come to a stop next to them. "I've been walking all 'round with me mam, listening to her nattering on about Merlin-knows-what, and I've got to tell you it's nice to see some friendly faces at last! I've met nobody but Slytherins the whole time I've been here, I can tell you; nearly had me arm wrenched off by that Zabini bloke as I passed him in Eeylop's, if you can imagine, and then that blond-haired prat Mal –"

"So how was your summer, Seamus?" Hermione smoothly cut in; a mean feat, as it was a well-known fact around Hogwarts that once Seamus Finnigan got started, there wouldn't be getting a word in edgewise with him. In fact, the most effective way to deal with the rambunctious Gryffindor, most people found, was to head him off into conversation that went above his intellect. Harry could only hope that Hermione managed to lead the discussion into books, somehow.

Seamus shrugged. "Ah, can't complain, I s'pose, what with this being the first You-Know-Who-less summer in over two years. All thanks to you, Harry, I must say. You're looking good, yeah? Heard you've been resting up all year. Coming back to Hogwarts for our final year, then? Seventh year, can you believe it? I remember when we were all standing together in front of the entire school about to get ourselves sorted ... do you remember that? What a night that was, eh? I was writing to Dean last week that –"

Seamus' words stopped abruptly (a foreboding sign all in itself), and with a sinking feeling Harry saw the Irish boy's eyes widen comically as he finally caught sight of the pram at Harry's elbow.

"Hello, what's this?" he asked slowly, his eyes rising to meet first Harry's, then Ron's and Hermione's sketchy gazes. "That's not got a baby in it, has it? Cor Ron, tell me your mam's not popped out another one!"

"Don't be stupid," said Ron gruffly; he cast an edgy look in Harry's direction – a look that, most unfortunately, Seamus noticed at once. He looked at Harry too, surprise and disbelief etched clearly onto the still-boyish face.

"Harry, mate," he said more slowly still, sounding almost cautious, "is that _your_ baby?"

The way he said it, the incredulity that suffused Seamus' voice as he gazed in bafflement between him and Lydia's pram, had Harry's hackles raised almost instantly. He certainly wasn't ashamed of his baby girl, no matter what other people thought or said, and he had no qualms with letting them know that, too. Drawing himself up, he looked Seamus square in the eye and said, calmly and simply, "Yes."

"But ..." For the first time since Harry had met him, Seamus Finnigan – the boy who had an opinion for everything – was speechless. "But I thought – I mean, how ...? That is to say – erm ..." He scratched the back of his neck, looking between Harry and the pram in utter bemusement. "Who's – who's the mother, then?" he finally managed to get out weakly.

There was a long, painfully drawn out pause.

"I am," said Harry eventually, trying to keep his voice calm, even as he glared at Seamus in silent warning to watch what he next said.

"Oh." Unfortunately, if there was one concept the Irish boy simply could not grasp, excluding Charms, it was subtlety. "Well, you were certainly busy last year, then. Preggers? You'd never know you'd been up the duff, mate, you're not fat at all. Though, that explains the extended absence quite well, doesn't it? I s'pose this means you're a pouf now, too. So who got you –?"

"Seamus, mate!" Ron interrupted hastily, springing toward the boy as though Hermione had pushed him (which she probably had, by the frantic look Harry spotted on the girl's face), and grasping his shoulder. "What d'you say we go check out that new broom at Quality Quidditch Supplies? I've been dying to get a look at it all summer."

"Oh. Yeah, all right." He looked over his shoulder as the redhead quickly began steering him away from Harry and Hermione. "Good to see you again, Harry! You too, Hermione!" he called out before disappearing into the crowd with Ron.

The moment Ron's fiery head bobbed out of sight, Harry sagged against the wall behind him, feeling as though a weight roughly the size of Hagrid just lifted from his shoulders, making his knees buckle and his legs weaken. He didn't know which to feel: relief or trepidation. He could hardly believe that his first encounter with a student of Hogwarts since the pregnancy had just taken place, and more importantly, he couldn't believe that no hexes had been thrown.

"Of all the people to run into from Hogwarts, it had to be Seamus bleeding Finnigan," he muttered tiredly, lifting his glasses to his forehead and scrubbing at his face with his hands. "The one boy in Gryffindor who couldn't keep his mouth closed if it were jinxed shut. Merlin, what a nightmare."

"It was hardly a nightmare," said Hermione. "A nightmare would have been Ron hexing Seamus through a window for saying something crude. It was entirely out of character for both of them, I thought. In fact, Seamus seemed to take the news rather well, and didn't do any of that odd gargling he does when a professor surprises him in class. Didn't blow anything up either, for that matter."

Harry snorted derisively. "Yes, well, he's about as mad as they come, isn't he?"

"I wouldn't say mad," said Hermione, as she leaned up against the wall beside Harry. "A bit daft, maybe," she continued musingly.

That surprised a bark of laughter out of Harry. "True. And I guess it _could _have been worse," he conceded ruefully. "He didn't yell or owl any reporters, and wasn't quite as insufferable as he usually is, so besides looking forward to many questions when we get back to Hogwarts I've really not much to worry about, have I?"

"I told you everything would be fine." Hermione paused. "But you _are_ all right, Harry?" she asked suddenly, peering at him closely, worry lines creasing her brow in concern. "You're not the only one who's noticed the stares and whispering, you know. Everyone is acting ridiculously obvious, and honestly I'm surprised you haven't pulled your wand yet."

"Well, it's worse than I'd expected, if that's what you mean," said Harry with a heaving sigh. "But I also know that it was bound to happen eventually, so might as well be now." At the girl's continued gaze, he added, "And yes, I'm all right, Hermione. Seamus didn't do his nut, I've yet to be mobbed, and my baby is still safe. And quiet. Could be a lot worse, couldn't it?"

Hermione nodded in agreement, looking thoughtful, and the two of them lapsed into silence, settling in to watch as the passers-by hurried up and down the busy street.

A few minutes later, Ginny exited the shop, a bag containing her supply of books dangling from one freckled hand. With one of her newly-patented looks of doom for Harry, she flicked her red hair over her shoulder and said loftily, "I need you to help me pick out potions' ingredients from the Apothecary, Hermione."

"All right. Are you coming, Harry?" asked Hermione, as she straightened up from the wall and made to follow the other girl.

"No, you go ahead," said Harry, waving her off. "I've still got plenty. Didn't make many potions last year, remember." He wasn't about to tell her that he didn't have the money for more potions' ingredients even if he had needed them. "I'll wait here for Mrs Weasley and tell her where you've all gone."

"See you later, then."

As he watched the two girls disappear in the same direction Ron and Seamus had gone, he caught sight of Mr Weasley sitting on a bench, talking animatedly with what appeared to be a very nervous Muggle couple. Snorting in amusement at the look of pure joy on Mr Weasley's face as the Muggle man began answering one of his many questions, Harry again looked down past the cover of Lydia's pram and smiled when he saw curious green eyes looking back up at him.

"Hello, beautiful," he said softly, leaning his arms against the handlebar and smiling down at his baby girl. "You've been rather quiet so far, haven't you? You're such a good girl, Lydie. Daddy's little angel," he cooed to his daughter, completely oblivious to the stares and gasps emanating from a nearby group of witches as they walked past. "You're ignoring the whispers quite well, eh, ducks? You weren't listening when that Irish prat was acting all odd, were you?" Lydia smiled up at him and giggled, her dummy popping out of her mouth as a result. Harry pushed it back in with a soft laugh. "Yes, you think he's quite bonkers, don't you? Such a clever girl you are." He gently tweaked Lydia's little button-nose, earning himself another gurgling giggle.

"Goodness me, where's everyone gone?" Mrs Weasley and Remus had stepped out of Flourish and Blotts as Harry was pushing Lydia's dummy back into her mouth again.

"Ron's gone off to Quality Quidditch Supplies, and Ginny took Hermione into the Apothecary just down the road. Oh, and Mr Weasley's over there talking to a Muggle couple," Harry added, with a nod to where Mr Weasley was still sitting.

"Not again," Mrs Weasley sighed exasperatedly when she caught sight of her husband. "I swear, he'd follow Muggles home like a lost Kneazle if I ever allowed it! And if he's not careful, he'll end up with another one of those please-men's staining orders some Muggle gave him once ..."

Harry didn't trust himself to reply, though he did manage to convert a snort into a coughing fit rather convincingly.

"Gracious, Harry, you're not coming down with something, are you? I suppose we'd best head to Madam Malkin's and be quick about it, then," said Mrs Weasley, looking decisive. "I'll just pop into the Apothecary and tell the girls to meet us there. Oh, and I'd best collect Ron too, Merlin knows that boy needs new robes, the way he grows. You'll take Harry there and get a head start of it, Remus?"

"Certainly, Molly."

"Right. See you in a few, then. Arthur!" she called out, bustling over to the bench where her husband was located; Harry watched as she poked him smartly in the shoulder. "You leave these poor Muggles alone and go fetch your wayward son! He's off staring at brooms and Quaffles and whatever else is in that Quality Quidditch shop ..."

"Always an interesting day when you're with the Weasleys." Remus chuckled and turned to Harry, offering him a warm smile. "Shall we head on, then?"

Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions was blissfully empty when Harry and Remus arrived. The little bell suspended magically above the entrance tinkled merrily the moment they entered the shop, and seconds later Madam Malkin was hurrying towards them from the back room with a measuring tape trailing along behind her like a lazy snake, a wide smile plastered on her heavily lined face.

"Well, if it isn't my favourite customer!" she cried joyously when she recognised Harry; an odd thing to say, Harry thought, as he had personally bought robes from her store a grand total of two times previous. "And – oh my." She stopped short when she noticed that Harry was pushing a pram in front of him.

"We'd like a set of Hogwarts robes in Gryffindor colours, please, madam," said Remus, before Harry could snap out something defensive and rude to the gaping woman.

"Ah – right." She hesitated for a moment longer, before slapping a smile back onto her face and bustling forward once more. "Of course, of course. Right this way, Mr Potter. I've got a stool all set up in the back. You may come along as well if you like, sir, there's plenty of room."

"Thank you," said Remus graciously, and they followed the woman into the back.

Harry left Remus in charge of his daughter as he stepped up onto the low wooden stool Madam Malkin indicated, making sure to keep Remus and Lydia in sight at all times. One may have called his actions paranoid, but Harry's nerves had been pulled taut for close to two hours, and he was not of the mindset to be taking any chances. After all the people whom had seemed so shocked when they saw him and Lydia, it would not be a great surprise to Harry if a mob of photographers suddenly flooded the robe shop, swarming in on him and his little girl.

"Hold up your arms, dear, that's it." Madam Malkin slipped a long garment of black material over Harry's head and began pinning it to the correct length, humming to herself and occasionally commenting about the weather or politics to Remus while she worked. Remus answered the robe-maker with nothing less than the utmost politeness, while Harry stayed silent, content in listening as the two adults spoke.

The tinkling of the entry bell had Harry tensing a few minutes later, but he soon afterwards relaxed when Ron entered the room, closely followed by one of Madam Malkin's many assistants.

"Mum's outside laying a new one on Dad," Ron said after he'd been positioned on the stool beside Harry. "Guess he was harassing some Muggle couple again, asking questions about blunders, or whatever they're called."

"Blenders," supplied Harry helpfully.

"Yeah, that's it. Anyway, we're supposed to meet them back at the Leaky Cauldron after we're finished here, Remus." He craned his neck to look over at the older man, who nodded at him in affirmation. "They're taking Ginny and Hermione to get parchment and quills and all that for us, so's we can get you and Lydie back before she turns all fussy and irritable, Harry."

Harry felt very relieved after the arrival of this piece of news; there was nothing he wanted more at that moment than to get his daughter back to the safety and privacy of the Burrow. He had had quite enough astonished looks for one day, and was ready to go home and have a good cuddle with his baby girl.

"Thanks for distracting Seamus for me, Ron," said Harry, wincing slightly as Madam Malkin jabbed him in the hip with one of her pins. She chirped out an apology before promptly jabbing him once more.

"No troubles, mate." Ron's words were muffled as the assistant had at that moment, and quite unexpectedly, flung a robe over his head. He forced his way free and continued, "It was obvious he was making you uncomfortable, and really, that bloke's nothing but an obnoxious prat anyway. Doesn't know when to shut up, that one."

Harry wholeheartedly agreed.

The bell tinkled distantly from the front of the shop a short while later, but Harry paid no mind to it, as at the same moment Lydia started making soft noises of distress. Harry went to hop off the stool and tend to his baby, but Madam Malkin tapped him sharply on the shin with her wand and said, "No moving from you, Mr Potter. I've almost finished."

"What left is there?" asked Harry irritably; Lydia's soft cries were getting louder and louder with each passing second, and he was feeling quite anxious to go and ease her.

Madam Malkin answered him by poking another one of her pins into his shoulder.

"Remus, can you try holding her? Maybe that'll settle her a little," Harry said to the older man, when Lydia's whimpers became full-blown wails. Remus immediately complied and stooped to pick up Lydia, confidently cradling the little baby in his arms when he straightened once more. Lydia's cries diminished slightly once she was held, but she was still whimpering, even with Remus rocking and rubbing her back and bottom gently.

"Done, dear," Madam Malkin finally declared after what seemed forever, and Harry nearly flew off the stool, not even bothering to take off the robe, so intent on seeing to his baby. In his haste to lift Lydia from Remus' arms and into his own, one of the ribbons tying Lydia's bonnet together snagged on a button of Remus' cuff and pulled free, allowing the pink cap to flutter to the ground, revealing Lydia's head of soft, blonde hair.

"Not to worry, I've got it," said Remus, as Harry stifled a curse and attempted to retrieve it himself.

"Thanks Remus," Harry began to say, but the words died in his throat, for as the older man bent low to pick up Lydia's hat, Harry's view of the doorway leading into the front room was no longer obstructed, and he immediately caught sight of a figure silhouetted there. The bottom dropped out of Harry's stomach and his breath rasped and stuttered on an inhale as he stared at the very last person he had wanted to meet in Diagon Alley: a stunned-looking Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin Ice Prince himself, was standing across from him, looking as though a stiff wind would blow him over.

Harry's notorious school rival really didn't look much different from the last time Harry had seen him: his face was still pale, pointed and well-defined, the infamous sneer that usually graced his features surprisingly absent, replaced by a look Harry had never seen on the other boy's face before, and therefore couldn't quite define. His hair was as blond and impeccably kept as ever, his fringe falling stylishly into wide, grey eyes. He was standing stock-still, a good three inches taller than Harry himself, and maybe two inches below Ron; his expensive, well-kept robes seeming misplaced without the usual swaggering stance that almost always accompanied them. The aristocratic arrogance and cheeky confidence that constantly wafted from the Slytherin while they were at Hogwarts had all but disappeared; instead Malfoy seemed rooted to the spot, his eyes locked on the baby cradled in Harry's arms – or more importantly, on her head of similar-coloured hair.

Silence spread throughout the tiny back room. No one said a word; Remus straightened, pink bonnet in one hand, the other gripping Harry's elbow in both support and restraint; Ron was a silent guard behind Harry, standing stiff-backed and glaring warily at the boy in the doorway, ready to defend Harry and Lydia by any means necessary; even Madam Malkin's humming had trailed away, and her assistant paused with a pin halfway through Ron's hem, the two witches staring back and forth between Harry and Malfoy, each able to feel the tension growing thick between the two boys like congealed Polyjuice Potion.

As the silence grew more protracted and strained Harry's arms tightened around his daughter of their own accord, pulling her protectively into his chest as he watched Malfoy's mouth slowly drop open, his cool grey eyes never wavering from Lydia's hair.

Then, like ripples moving across the surface of a lake, a plethora of expressions began swarming the usually stoic, cold face: grey eyes widened in surprise; blond eyebrows knitted in confusion; a sleek head shook slowly back and forth in disbelief; and a pink mouth began opening and closing wordlessly, undoubtedly attempting to articulate his most prevalent feeling, shock. Unused to showing face in public, Malfoy seemed to be struggling with schooling his features back into one of his usual masks, and Harry, who had rarely experienced anything other than icy disdain or heated anger from the Slytherin boy, was having difficulty concealing his own feelings of alarm and wariness, which seemed to be swirling about in his stunned mind, foggy and disjointed, making him feel sick and light-headed.

Lydia, who's whimpers had subsided to soft gurgling the moment she'd been safely placed into Harry's arms, seemed to feel that enough attention was not being directed her way by her father, and she began squirming in his arms, kicking out her legs and flailing about her tiny arms in a plea for attention.

The movement and whimpering from the tiny baby seemed to snap Malfoy back into reality like a bolt of lightning striking a tree, and with his gaze still glued to Lydia, he haltingly took a step forward into the room.

There was sudden scrambling from behind Harry, and an instant later Ron was jumping in between him and Malfoy, pins flying askance from his half-finished robe as he grabbed the Slytherin boy's collar and began bodily removing him from the room, his face red and marred with a most vicious-looking snarl, not unlike Remus during a full moon. Surprisingly, and most uncharacteristically, Malfoy put up no resistance, and allowed Ron to force him back into the front of the shop without voicing an objection, his eyes still wide and fixed on Lydia as he disappeared wordlessly around a rack of elaborately flashing fabrics.

Lydia was trembling in Harry's arms, and it took him a dazed moment to realise that it was because of his hands, which were shaking fiercely.

"Harry." The hand on Harry's elbow moved to his shoulder and grasped it tightly, as though to keep him from collapsing to the ground. Remus' concerned voice called again, "Harry, are you all right?"

Harry looked up into a pair of anxious eyes and nodded shakily, feeling numb from his shoulders down. Inside his head were jumbled, contradicting orders of _Follow him and explain_! and _Take Lydie and run_! that were leaving a dense, endless fog where his thoughts should be. He distantly contemplated opening his mouth and saying "I'm fine," to Remus, but he doubted the older man would believe him, even if Harry managed to force the words out through his dry, constricted throat.

Hurried words were exchanged over his head, presumably Remus speaking with Madam Malkin, but Harry ignored what was being said and instead clutched Lydia up to his shoulder, holding onto her tiny body like a lifeline, trying to keep himself anchored and away from the fuzzy recesses of his mind that were beckoning him into tempting blackness. This was what shock must feel like, a detached part of Harry's mind observed, when Remus gripped his elbow more firmly and began steering him out of the back room and into the front of the shop, whispering low, indecipherable words into Harry's faintly ringing ears as they walked. Harry's feet went along without his commanding them, which was lucky for the stunned boy, as it was only raised voices and bright flashes outside that alerted Harry to the fact that he had been moving at all.

Squinting against the blinding lights that seemed to be flashing at him from every direction, Harry's mind slowly pulled itself from its self-imposed stupor, and as though a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head, he realised with a sickening jolt that the source of flashing lights were in actuality dozens of magical cameras held by shouting witches and wizards, surrounding the entrance of the shop and puffing out thick, purple smoke as they rapidly clicked his picture. It appeared that every photographer and reporter in wizarding Britain had been called to Diagon Alley, and as Harry stood there blinking uselessly, clutching Lydia close to him and staring at the crowd enclosing him on all sides, they began bombarding him with questions.

"Harry Potter, this is your first public appearance since your supposed recovery from magical exhaustion, is it not ..."

"Harry, is it true that the final battle between you and He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named permanently weakened your magical abilities ..."

"... Have you been turned into a Squib, Mr Potter?"

"Can you explain where the baby you're holding came from? Are the rumours of her belonging to you true? Or is she a distant relation of your late mother's ..."

"... Where _is _the mother, Mr Potter?"

"Do you feel, Mr Potter, that being a single, teenaged father will affect your title as _Witch Weekly's Most Sought After Wizard _..."

"Look this way for the _Daily Prophet_, Mr Potter ..."

"Mr Potter –"

The noise was overwhelming; combined with the shrieking wails of Lydia, who was not accustomed to the loud noises and bright flashes of the suffocating crowd, Harry felt himself begin to panic. Feeling Remus' grip on his shoulder disappear as the older man stepped in front of him and attempted to disperse the many reporters and photographers, Harry did the only thing he could think of to protect himself and his daughter: with only thoughts of getting Lydia back to the Burrow where she would be safe, the black-haired boy closed his eyes, turned swiftly on the spot, and disappeared with a loud _pop_, Disapparating away from the ruthless crowd of reporters, his screaming baby clutched tightly in his arms.


	3. A Most Insightful Train Ride

**Chapter Three: A Most Insightful Train Ride**

"So if everyone keeps up with their patrolling schedules and remembers protocol for disciplinary actions – no point taking, and only the Head Boy and myself may issue detentions – then this school year will run as smoothly and easily as years previous," Hermione Granger concluded authoritatively, her Head Girl badge gleaming in the late morning sunlight streaming through the train compartment's window as she gazed at the faces sitting around her. "Any questions?"

No one spoke. Hermione suppressed a sigh; she didn't even know why she had bothered to ask. It was clear, by the looks on the new and returning prefects' faces, that their one and only shared desire was to get through patrols as quickly as possible and return to their friends' carriages. Hermione could easily sympathise with them; she, too, wanted nothing more than to sit in the compartment that was currently occupied by the majority of her friends, listening to the many happenings of their summer holidays as they ate their way through a mountain of pumpkin pasties and cauldron cakes, but as Head Girl she felt it necessary to stand firm, to keep a good example and make sure that none of her prefects decided to shirk their duties.

_Even the ones you wish to favour_. Hermione resisted the urge to laugh as Ron, who had clearly been dozing throughout most of her welcome speech, suddenly allowed his head to droop to the side and bang noisily against the compartment window, bringing him back to full attention with a start. He looked blearily around at all the surrounding faces, then started again, grinning sheepishly when he noticed Hermione watching him. Hermione snorted and rolled her eyes.

"Well, you know where to begin," she said, once again addressing the prefects as a group. "Keep a keen eye, everyone, and we'll have a peaceful ride all the way to Hogwarts. That's all." Relieved murmurs and grumbles answered Hermione, all of which she primly ignored. She stood and watched as the prefects split into pairs and exited the compartment, Gryffindors with Ravenclaws, Ravenclaws with Hufflepuffs, Hufflepuffs with Gryffindors, and Slytherins with ... Slytherins.

_That could be problematic_, Hermione thought with a frown as the last pair, a sixth- and seventh-year Slytherin, disappeared out the compartment door and into the narrow corridor of the Hogwarts Express. _The Slytherins shouldn't continue to be isolating themselves, especially after last year_.

Slytherin House had returned the previous school year with over half its members missing; students either killed in battle next to their parents' sides, or sent off to various magical schools throughout the continent to avoid the persecution of having their families allied with Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters. It had been a severe blow to the integrity of Slytherin House, not to mention dampening on the spirits of the remaining Slytherin students, and the House of Salazar had been pushed into the shadows of disgrace by the other three Houses, pranks and harsh remarks constantly being thrown their way whenever a member of Slytherin could be singled out. As a consequence, Slytherins soon began to keep to themselves during meal times; they moved in packs from class to class, and never spoke out during their inter-House lessons.

Most of the remaining student population had found it entertaining and most satisfying to watch the Slytherins finally step down from their self-proclaimed thrones and bend their proud necks, but Hermione, unlike most of her Gryffindor friends, had not enjoyed watching the spectacle of Slytherin students losing their once renowned sense of pride and accomplishment in themselves. Though she had many times in the past been at the receiving end of negative attentions from the House of Slytherin, she had made it her personal goal as Head Girl to do what the Sorting Hat had once encouraged nearly two years ago, and finally unite the four Houses of Hogwarts.

_Though that will prove exceedingly difficult if the Head Boy won't even bother to show up for meetings_, thought Hermione to herself with an annoyed huff, as she too exited the prefects' compartment and began her own patrol of the narrow corridor. _Certainly doesn't bode well for the remainder of the year, does it_?

Hermione had had an inkling of suspicion over the summer as to whom she would be sharing her duties with this coming year. Her suspicions had increased when she had received her Head Girl badge a fortnight ago, and Ron had simply received a booklist (much to the redhead's disappointment). They had been confirmed when she'd entered the prefects' compartment and found Ernie Macmillan and Terry Boot both looking mulish and cranky, their prefects' badges hanging off the shoulders of their robes as they spoke tersely with one another.

She hadn't been surprised to see that neither boy had earned the coveted position. Hermione had assumed early on that Headmaster Dumbledore would make Draco Malfoy Head Boy, particularly after his startling declaration against Lord Voldemort and, consequently, his father at the end of their fifth year. Though the fact that he was disowned and essentially penniless hadn't deterred Malfoy's arrogance and self-absorbing nature in the slightest, Hermione privately agreed with Dumbledore, and felt that the Slytherin was the best for the Head Boy position. He was, after all, one of the top students in their year – second only to Hermione, herself, she thought smugly – and even if Hermione had strong reservations, both professional and personal, against sharing the position of Head students with Malfoy, she had thought that they had both matured enough to be able to work towards school unity together in relative harmony. Malfoy had always been highly respected and even endeared within his House, particularly by the younger students, and with his cunning abilities and advanced manipulation skills, Hermione had had high hopes of bringing Slytherin House back into the mainstream of Hogwarts.

Those hopes seemed to be crashing down around Hermione's ears now, however. If Malfoy was arrogant enough to find his first meeting as Head Boy insignificant and unnecessary enough to not even show up, then Hermione could say good-bye to having the Slytherin boy's cooperation, and say hello to handling all the major issues that were sure to spring up the coming terms herself.

_I don't know why I expected better of him_, thought Hermione, feeling a sudden burst of frustration and anger toward the blond-haired boy. _Draco Malfoy wouldn't know responsibility if it bit him on his pale arse._ _After what he did to Harry _...

She stopped walking, took a deep, forceful breath, and pulled herself together. There was no use getting upset about the whole ordeal with Harry and Malfoy, she told herself firmly as she began walking once more. Malfoy had made it perfectly clear what he felt by never responding to Harry's letter, and as Harry adamantly _refused_ to even acknowledge the encounter with him in Diagon Alley, Hermione was at her wit's end trying to deal with her morose, not to mention stubborn, friend. There was no point in trying to get Harry to express his thoughts or feelings concerning Malfoy; he seemed quite content to ignore his child's other, insufferable, pig-headed, prat of a father, and it had taken all of Hermione's patience, and every nagging ability she possessed, to get the green-eyed boy to even write Malfoy in the first place.

_And that blew up in my face spectacularly, to say the least_, she thought as she plucked a Fanged Frisbee from the hands of a fourth-year Ravenclaw, and then sent him scurrying away with a stern look reminiscent of Professor McGonagall. _Harry didn't speak to me for days after that slimy, smirking pillock sent Hedwig back without a reply._ _Honestly, there isn't a smidgeon of decency in that pompous git, not even a bit._

It had truly shocked Hermione, along with the rest of the Weasley household, when Hedwig had returned sans letter three days after being sent out. She had been sure that the snowy owl would come back with a response, whether it be one of cordial disbelief or a ranting denial. When there had been no such letter tied to Hedwig's leg, Hermione had been surprised. Her surprise had quickly morphed into outrage, however, after she caught a glimpse of the devastated look that had flickered across Harry's face before it had shuttered closed and he fled, hiding out in the attic room with Lydia, and refusing to speak with anyone for the rest of the day.

It was just like Malfoy, Ron had raged the second they heard the distant slamming of the attic door above them. Just like him to take pleasure in making other people suffer, and Hermione couldn't have agreed more. It only went to show that Draco Malfoy was a callous, selfish, egotistical prat who couldn't even feel obligated to care for a child he helped create, and Hermione didn't understand why she had expected any better of him.

It made her feel equally furious and helpless, to watch as Harry struggled with taking care of Lydia on his own, and Hermione had no troubles in placing sole blame on Malfoy. It was true that, in the words of a blustering Ron, _it took two to duel_, and Lydia surely was a gift to all of their lives, but Harry was much too young to be a father, in Hermione's opinion, and it had been Malfoy's responsibility to, if not stop the whole situation from even happening in the first place, then to at least take some precautions! He knew perfectly well that Harry was Muggle-raised, and didn't have the thirst for knowledge that Hermione constantly felt the need to nourish. How would Harry have ever known that males could get pregnant in the wizarding world? He had certainly never asked Hermione about it, and she had never felt the urge to discuss the possibility with him, as she hadn't even known Harry liked boys until he had told them about his pregnancy. She couldn't even begin to fathom how it had failed to cross Malfoy's mind that he was dealing with a magically powerful wizard who hadn't the first clue about the consequences of unprotected intercourse – it wasn't as though male pregnancy was taught to them during lessons!

Hermione briefly amused herself with the image of a stern Professor McGonagall talking them through the internal Transfiguration a wizard went through after copulation with another male, while a blushing Professor Flitwick showed the proper wand movements for a protection charm, and a sneering Professor Snape taught them how to produce contraceptive potions. It was a ludicrous scene, to say the least.

And yet Malfoy hadn't bothered to use a protective charm. Had it been total ignorance of Harry and any possibility for a pregnancy that had prevented Malfoy from protecting both of them? Had it been a drunken blunder, and Malfoy simply forgot the necessity? Or was Draco Malfoy just the thoughtless, cowardice arse Hermione and the rest of her friends perceived him to be, and didn't care what happened or who it was with, as long as he got off?

As Hermione passed a compartment occupied by the remaining seventh-year Slytherin students – Malfoy excluded, interestingly – she paused in her steps, her thoughts drifting back to her responsibilities as Head Girl, and her goals for the upcoming year. It would be a long, strenuous road to achieving school unity, even more so without Malfoy's influence in Slytherin on her side, but if her best friend could swallow his pride and write to the person he disliked the most, for the sake of his daughter, then surely Hermione could swallow hers and attempt to get along with the House of Salazar, for the sake of her school?

Pansy Parkinson caught sight of her through the doorway and shot her a look of deep contempt.

Hermione rolled her eyes and walked on. _Perhaps not_.

Harry sighed quietly to himself as he turned a page in his book, his eyes feeling strained and grainy as he squinted at the tiny print. The bright sunlight that had been warming his face and shoulders for the majority of the ride to Hogsmeade station was beginning to fade into a much cooler pink, nearly disappearing altogether except for the occasional peak or twinkle in between twisted branches of the trees that were currently acting as the landscape whizzing past Harry's compartment window. The decline in sunlight was making it progressively harder for Harry to see the pages situated right in front of his nose, and without the torches along the adjacent corridor igniting and allowing for some extra light to filter into his compartment, it was proving quite difficult to concentrate. Of course, a quick _lumos_ could easily have Harry back in top reading form, but as his mobility was greatly impaired due to the warm weight currently nestled against his chest and stomach, he didn't even bother to try for his wand, which was poking out of his back trouser pocket, covered by the folds of the robe he had previously changed into. And really, eye strain was a small price to pay for the silence enveloping the compartment, Harry thought to himself as he glanced away from his book, and down at the head of blonde hair that continued to tickle his nose with every inhale. The enclosed, nearly empty compartment seemed to have had a calming effect on Harry's daughter, and with only a few interruptions from passing students – most of whom had blanched and quickly exited when they'd caught sight of the dark glare directed their way over the top of Harry's book – Harry and Lydia had had a quiet, nearly pleasant train ride.

It was a far cry from the rather _enthusiastic _greeting they had received on platform nine and three-quarters earlier that morning. People had been flocking from every which way at the sight of Harry stepping through the magical barrier between platforms nine and ten, and it had been all Harry's friends could do to keep the flustering crowd at bay while he and Lydia made a run for the Hogwarts Express and the relative privacy of an empty compartment. They had yet to be disturbed by anyone the entire train ride, mostly due to Ron keeping silent guard by the door for the first half of the trip, and as there was only about a half hour left until they reached Hogsmeade, at least by Harry's estimations, there stood a good chance of him and his daughter making it to Hogwarts without any trouble.

Just then Harry heard his compartment door slide open, and he shook his head ruefully, nearly laughing at the irony. Hoping that it was someone who's presence he could at least tolerate, Harry glanced from _Searching for the Snitch: A Guide to Honing Seeker Skills, _and was quite relieved to spot Hermione standing in the doorway, her Head Girl badge pinned to her Gryffindor robes, a look of simmering irritation on her face.

"Patrols not going well?" he asked her cheerfully, marking his page and setting his book down on the compartment floor, the only place he could reach from his position, lying on his back across three seats with Lydia sleeping soundly on top of him.

"Did you know that first-years have no respect for their elders?" seethed Hermione, closing the door behind her with a snap and sitting down across from Harry with an annoyed huff. "I caught three of them just now, prancing about down the hallway, mocking me. _Mocking me_! Then they look at me like I'm an ogre when I reprimand them for it, as though they've done nothing wrong. And then, if you can imagine, when I left I could hear them giggling all the way down the corridor. Giggling! I tell you, I can sympathise with the professors this year, having to teach these first-years: there's absolutely no respect from the lot of them! I don't know when they've become so immune to authority; I know _I _wouldn't have dared mock the Head Girl when I was a first-year!"

"I wouldn't've either," replied Harry, nodding sagely as Hermione paused in her tirade to take a much-needed breath. "She was a fierce-looking girl, and weighed nearly four stone more than me."

Hermione shot him an exasperated look. "Harry, you were such a tiddler back then, _everyone _weighed more than you did."

"Cupboard, remember?" Harry retorted crossly. He absolutely _detested_ being called a "tiddler". "And Crabbe and Goyle combined wouldn't have stood a chance against that heaving girl, and you know it. To this day Ron swears she was a relative of Hagrid's."

Hermione snorted. "Of course Ron would think that," she muttered, though Harry detected a distinct fondness in his friend's voice. "So basically what you're saying is, unless I use an Engorgement Charm on myself and claim a relation to Hagrid, I can forget about receiving the respect I deserve as Head Girl?"

"Well, either that or tell them you're related to Snape. That'd gain you respect quickly, I reckon."

"Yes, not to mention poisoned as well," replied Hermione with a shiver, followed quickly by a laugh, which Harry returned. They soon quieted down, and Hermione seemed to ponder for a moment, before a teasing smile spread slowly across her face. "You know, I could always tell them about my close friendship with Harry Potter, the fierce defeater of Lord Voldemort and saviour of the wizarding world."

It was Harry's turn to snort. "Yeah, I'm looking quite fierce, aren't I?" he asked drily, indicating the slumbering baby on his stomach. "Brilliant idea, Hermione: use your relationship with a teenaged father to garner respect. Tell me how well that goes for you, yeah?"

"It'd certainly win the votes of the female population," said Hermione, keeping up with their light, teasing conversation. "You're looking quite fetching right now, Harry, if I may say so. Hair tousled and eyes droopy – due to sleep deprivation, I'd imagine – all sprawled out and cradling a sweet little baby protectively against your chest ... girls love the strong, sensitive types, you know."

"Really. They love the sensitive, got shagged and gave birth type of blokes, do they?"

That seemed to momentarily stump her, and Harry chuckled at the look of consternation Hermione now wore. "Finally, I've done what no one previous has ever achieved, and have rendered Hermione Granger speechless. Someone pinch me, I must be dreaming."

"Oh, honestly." Hermione rolled her eyes and lifted her nose, attempting to look cold and dignified, but a warm smile gave her away. Harry returned a grin and allowed his eyes to flutter closed, settling himself into a more comfortable position, with one arm holding Lydia securely against him and the other bent beneath his head, propping his neck. He felt sleepy and content, and along with the soothing back-and-forth sway of the train, and the soft rhythmic sounds of Lydia's breathing, Harry soon found himself beginning to drift off.

Before he could fully descend into sleep, however, Hermione spoke, her voice sounding deceptively light.

"He's not on the train, you know."

Harry's eyes flickered open, and he turned his head to look over at Hermione. "Sorry?"

"You heard me, Harry," said Hermione, in the same light, even tones, "and you know who I'm talking about. I saw the way you tensed when I opened the compartment door just now. You were worried it might be Malfoy."

It was times like this that Harry truly despised having a perceptive friend: he hadn't even noticed himself tense, it was such an unconscious act for him now. It _was_ true though; now that he focused, he could feel it the strain forming in his shoulders that had nothing to do with laying across an uncomfortable compartment bench, and the way his fingers clutched at Lydia, keeping her securely against him. He could admit to himself that he had been spending the entirety of the trip attempting to distract himself from the fact that he had been feeling vaguely ill since stepping onto the train, and as Harry peered closely up at his friend, he debated whether owning up to that fact would be a wise choice, or if he should simply deny all that Hermione said and instead declare that she was out of her tree.

Hermione gazed back at him blankly, waiting patiently for a response.

Harry chose nonchalance.

"Malfoy's not on the train?" he asked, deliberately ignoring Hermione's last statement. He turned back to face the ceiling and closed his eyes once more. "And how d'you figure that?"

"Well, for one he wasn't at the prefects' meeting," said Hermione. "At first I thought it was merely him being his usual self-absorbed self, refusing to show up, but then when I passed by the seventh-year Slytherins' compartment, he wasn't sitting with them. I found that to be odd, so I asked around, and no one I've talked with has seen him. He's simply not here."

Harry's feelings were mixed after hearing this. It really was odd, being both relieved and angry, he thought to himself. Relieved that he had at least an extra half hour before he would have to face the blond-haired pillock, and angry that he had been tense and nervous all day for nothing. He pondered over his conflicting emotions, all the while ignoring the pointed looks Hermione kept shooting at him, hoping that she would take his silence as cool indifference.

"Don't you find it odd?" Hermione continued to prod, and Harry gave up on his brief hope for a topic switch, opening his eyes again with a sigh.

"I really don't find it to be anything, Hermione," he spoke to the ceiling, avoiding Hermione's probing gaze and beginning to feel stuffy and disgruntled. "Malfoy's not on the train. So what? Maybe he overslept this morning and missed it."

Hermione made an impatient noise in the back of her throat.

"Draco Malfoy, late for anything?" she asked, sounding sceptical. "Please. He's one of the most annoyingly punctual people I know –"

"Aside from you, you mean."

"– and I just find it highly _unlikely_," continued Hermione in a raised voice, pointedly ignoring Harry's remark, "that he wouldn't make it to King's Cross on time. After years of taking pleasure in harassing the first-years before they've even made it to Hogwarts, why would he suddenly decide to not show up?"

"Because he's a lazy, useless arse?" muttered Harry. At Hermione's baleful glare, he sighed explosively and said, "I really don't know what you want me to say, Hermione. I truly couldn't care less where Malfoy is at this precise moment, so long as it isn't around me. He's not exactly my favourite person, if you remember."

"Tell that to the baby you're holding."

That touched a nerve. Harry began to sit up, but froze when Lydia made a soft noise of discontent. He lay back, placed a soothing hand on his daughter's back, and then glared furiously over at Hermione. "What is _that _supposed to mean?" he demanded angrily.

"Merlin Harry, calm down before you wake Lydie up." Hermione made a shushing motion with her hands, and wouldn't continue until Harry grudgingly relaxed his shoulders back into the seat underneath him. "I didn't mean it that way, and you know it," she said, unrepentant. "All I'm trying to say is that if you don't confront Malfoy, and confront him soon, then in a few years you're going to need to explain to your daughter why she only has one parent."

"Why should I confront him?" Harry asked harshly, his cheeks and neck flushing angrily; he was beginning to feel quite annoyed at having to continually explain himself to his pushy friend. "He made it perfectly clear that he wants nothing to do with Lydie, and I don't really fancy chasing him 'round a great dirty castle the entire year trying to get him to acknowledge her."

"Lydie deserves two parents –"

"Lydie doesn't _need_ two parents," Harry interjected heatedly, cutting Hermione off. "She's got me, and the Weasleys, and Remus, and you as her family. That's plenty for one baby, she doesn't needthat stupid arse in her life!"

"But –"

"_Drop it_, Hermione," growled Harry. He had had enough of this conversation. Blood was rushing into his face, pumping furiously through his temples and throbbing loudly in his ears as he became more and more fired up. He couldn't understand why Hermione continued to push this issue at him; she knew who Malfoy was, and just how selfish the Slytherin boy could be. What else did she expect Harry to do? He'd written the bloody letter, hadn't he?

"All right," said Hermione quietly, finally relenting, "all right, I'm sorry. I'm not trying to make you angry, Harry, I only want you and Lydie to be happy."

She sounded so sincere as she said the last bit, that it made all the explosive anger Harry had been feeling abruptly deflate, leaving him feeling washed-out and miserable for yelling at her in the first place. Hermione _was_ just trying to help, after all. He knew that she, like him, had only good intentions for Lydia, and though her self-imposed role as Harry's own personal Agony Aunt was unnecessary and at times rather irritating, Hermione truly cared for him and his daughter, and would do anything to protect them both.

_Oh, bugger, she looks upset. Apologise, you insensitive sod! _"Look, Hermione," he began, grimacing at how awkward his voice sounded, even to his own ears. "I'm ... ah –"

The train abruptly jolted, and Harry felt his heart jump into his throat as the soft material of Lydia's outfit slipped through his fingers and the tiny baby slid sideways. With a panicked and rather ungraceful lurch, Harry managed to prevent his daughter from tumbling to the floor, but only just, and in consequence Lydia's wails soon filled the compartment, though honestly Harry couldn't really blame her. What a wretched way to wake up.

"Merlin Harry, is she all right?" Hermione's anxious voice cut through both Lydia's screams and the blood still pulsing loudly in Harry's ears, and he glanced over to see the Head Girl standing on her feet, her eyes partially covered by her hands as she looked worriedly down at Lydia.

"Yeah ... yeah, she's all right," Harry replied a bit breathlessly; he sat up and cuddled Lydia to his shoulder, bouncing her up and down and making soothing noises to try to calm her crying.

"Shh, shh, it's all right, lovely, calm down," he whispered softly into her hair. He looked back up at Hermione and laughed shakily. "Well, there's one way to announce our arrival." He tried to sound jokingly, but it came off rather weak instead.

Hermione quite obviously agreed, though she thankfully didn't mention it.

"I need to help direct the first-years onto the platform," she told Harry instead, already out of her seat and halfway out the door. Before she disappeared into the corridor, which was already brimming with excited students shoving to get off the train, she turned back to look uncertainly at Harry.

"Go on," Harry nodded to her. "I'll see you at the feast."

She nodded back, but still seemed hesitant, possibly because of Harry's awkward apology which was still suspended between them amidst Lydia's wails, broken off and unspoken. Harry couldn't bring himself to speak the words that Hermione deserved to hear, and for a moment he half-feared that she would call him on his pathetic failure at not being a complete arse, but her Head Girl senses won out in the end, and with one last contemplative look, Hermione disappeared into the thronging crowd of students, her voice snapping out orders even before the backs of her robes swished out of the doorway.

Harry waited for the crowd in front of his compartment to mostly thin away before he collected his book, slung Lydia's bag over the shoulder his baby wasn't currently cuddled against, and exited the train.


	4. An Abundance of Meetings

**Chapter Four: An Abundance of Meetings**

"Mr Potter! A word."

The ringing yell had the many students watching him start and look away, and Harry suppressed an immense sigh of relief as he pushed his way across the entrance hall and over to Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts and his Transfiguration professor. He was thoroughly sick of all the strange looks being directed his way by his peers, and any reason to prolong his entering the Great Hall, and thus facing the entirety of Hogwarts' student body with his daughter in his arms, was a welcomed reason indeed, even if it meant a one-on-one conversation with his stern Head of House.

"Go on, into the Great Hall with you," McGonagall barked at the handful of students that was still standing in the entrance hall, their mouths agape and their eyes tracking Harry's progress across the marbled floor, Lydia's bag bouncing softly against the back of his shoulder. They all visibly jumped at McGonagall's order and scurried in through the hall doors before she could deduct House points.

McGonagall gave an impatient sniff at their scampering backs before turning her fierce look on Harry, who had come to a rest at her side. He fought his well-practised urge to recoil from that particular look, as in the past it had meant attending some of his more unpleasant detentions.

"The headmaster wishes for you to go up to his office and wait for him there, Potter," she informed him briskly, without preamble. "Password is 'liquorice wands'. Proceed there, immediately."

"Yes, Professor." The cool abruptness in McGonagall's words would have had Harry feeling slight trepidation, had it not been for the minute twitch in his Head of House's thin lips as she glanced down at Lydia, who was curled in one of Harry's arms, happily munching on a fistful of her father's robes, her green eyes roving over the glimmering marble staircase in front of them with apparent fascination.

Harry knew Lydia was looking irresistibly adorable, clad in a frilly red dress with the Gryffindor insignia blazoned upon the front in gold, black shiny shoes adorning her tiny feet, and a matching bow nestled in her soft, tufty blonde hair. He'd already had a pack of Hufflepuff fifth-year girls approach him and Lydia on their journey up to the castle, their faces lit up and eyes wide and comical as they made ridiculous faces at Lydia, proclaiming that she was "the sweetest little baby," and repeatedly asking if they could hold her, only to slink away in sulky disappointment when Harry stiffly denied their requests. The disaster that had been Diagon Alley a fortnight ago had more than prepared Harry for the attention his baby girl would receive from the females of Hogwarts, as his and Lydia's picture had unsurprisingly been displayed on the front page of most of the papers and magazines ever since their little foray into wizarding public. It was still quite a surprise, however, when Professor McGonagall's stern look melted into one of dewy affection, a finger crooking under Lydia's chin, her wizened eyes crinkling into a smile behind her square-rimmed glasses as the tiny baby giggled around her mouthful of Harry's robes.

"From what Molly Weasley has mentioned to me, you have flourished as a father, Potter," she informed Harry, still in brisk tones, but with decidedly less hardness behind her words. "I must say, I quite agree, by the looks of this healthy, giggling child." She seemed to hesitate a moment, then said in a softer, quiet tone, "Your parents would have been proud."

That proclamation left Harry accordingly gob-smacked. To receive both a smile and a warm compliment from the notoriously strict, tightly-lipped Minerva McGonagall was high praise indeed, and to hear his parents would have been proud of him, after countless sleepless nights when Harry had doubted just that, well ... Harry found himself not knowing quite how to respond. He shot McGonagall a rather meek smile, murmured, "Thank you, Professor," and started up the marble staircase, glancing back over his shoulder halfway up and catching sight of McGonagall sniffling suspiciously before she, too, disappeared behind the Great Hall doors.

With everyone attending the welcoming feast in the Great Hall – ghosts and (thankfully) the old, cantankerous caretaker Filch included – the journey up to the headmaster's office was fairly uneventful. Aside from a few smart comments made by a group of old hags taking residence in a ragged portrait on the third floor, and a close run-in with Peeves the Poltergeist as he slicked the banisters of the second-floor staircase, the corridors were silent and empty, and in what seemed record time Harry was saying the password to the stone gargoyle that guarded the seventh floor entrance to Professor Dumbledore's office, and stepping onto the ascending staircase that slowly led him up to a large, wooden door. Knowing the headmaster was currently witness to the sorting of the first-year students many floors below him, Harry bypassed the bronzed knocker and entered the warm, circular office which housed a great mahogany desk, a multitude of unidentifiable silver instruments puffing away merrily on spindly-legged tables, the dozing portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts, and a large golden perch, upon which sat an equally large, crimson bird.

"Evening, Fawkes," said Harry to Dumbledore's magnificent pet as he settled both himself and Lydia into one of the two squashy chairs situated before the headmaster's desk.

The phoenix trilled a few notes softly in greeting and turned his head to the side, gazing regally down at Harry and his daughter with one of his beady black eyes. Lydia seemed enthralled with the impressively colourful bird, and it was all Harry could do to keep from dropping his daughter as she wriggled in his arms, waving her arms madly in Fawkes' direction, her eyes wide and staring, garbled giggles and noises streaming from her mouth as the bird utterly captivated her.

"Yes, Lydie, Fawkes is a pretty bird, isn't he?" Harry cooed, trying to regain his daughter's attention, and then feeling slightly put-out when she ignored him entirely, so intent on Fawkes.

After a few minutes of continued failure to get Lydia to look at him, a voice sounded. "Ah, Mr Potter, thank you for waiting so patiently." Harry looked up from where he had been rooting around one-handed through Lydia's bag, searching for her dummy, to see Professor Dumbledore standing next to him, a soft smile gracing his wizened features, crinkling the ends of his ever-twinkling eyes.

"Evening, sir," Harry said to him, nodding his head respectfully, all the while silently pondering how a man Dumbledore's age had managed to sneak up next to him without Harry even noticing, never mind the fact the headmaster's outrageously yellow robes were louder than a banshee mid-shriek.

"I do hope you have not been kept in too high of a suspenseful state over the reason for this impromptu meeting, my dear boy," said Dumbledore as he settled himself comfortably into his winged chair, sweeping his beard away from the desk and steepling his fingers in front of him. "I made the assumption you would understand the need to meet with me before the school year began proper."

"I suppose it has to do with Lydie, sir," said Harry a tad uncertainly, after a slight pause in which Dumbledore peered at him over his half-moon spectacles expectantly.

The headmaster's lips twitched. "Ah yes, our dear little Miss Lydia." His eyes seemed to shine a slightly brighter blue as he gazed at the baby in Harry's arms, who was still fixated with the phoenix sitting across from her. "She certainly seems to enjoy your colourful plumage, does she not, Fawkes?"

Fawkes crooned in agreement. The headmaster chuckled softly, pulled out his wand and flicked it twice, producing a colour-changing rattle from thin air. He waved the noise-maker in Lydia's direction, and then chuckled again when the baby's green eyes immediately trained on him. "Perhaps this will keep her properly entertained while we have our discussion, Mr Potter."

It certainly proved entertaining, though more for the baby or the headmaster, Harry couldn't quite decide. He watched in dubious amusement as Dumbledore began to play with Lydia, his half-moon spectacles slipping down his crooked nose as he leaned over the desk, his lips puckering up as he made "goo-goo" noises, much to the delight of Lydia, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the exaggerated faces and noises Harry's headmaster was making for her.

Five full minutes had nearly passed before Harry decided to speak. "Er, Professor?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes." Dumbledore passed the rattle over to Lydia's outstretched hands, straightened himself once more, and then absent-mindedly began brushing out the wrinkles in his robes. "Forgive an old man, my dear boy, but the happy giggles of a young child are music to these withered ears." He smiled serenely at Harry. Harry stared bemusedly back. Lydia shook the rattle in her hand, giggled with delight, and then preceded to smack her father on the chin with it.

"Now," said Dumbledore, his voice gone back to authoritative headmaster, though his electric blue eyes were still glittering with cheerful humour. "Enough distractions. On to the purpose for this little meeting.

"First and foremost, we must discuss where you and Miss Lydia will be staying for the duration of the school year."

"Not in Gryffindor Tower, sir?" asked Harry while he rubbed the tender underside of his chin where the rattle had hit him.

"A young child and her father deserve, at the very least, a semblance of privacy, no matter how difficult that may be to achieve in a boarding school," replied Dumbledore. "That being said, it would be nigh impossible for such a thing to be found for you and Miss Lydia in the Gryffindor dormitories. If my memory of long ago serves correctly, teenaged boys can get quite, shall we say _rambunctious, _after Quidditch matches and particularly large consumptions of sugar. As both these occurrences happen quite often, it would not at all be a place for a young baby to live and sleep, do you not agree?"

Harry nodded his understanding.

"There is, however, a set of rooms found not far from Gryffindor Tower that would serve the purpose of bedroom and nursery for you and Miss Lydia quite well. Mind you they are small, but they come with their own toilet, and might I say the shower is wondrously spacious." Harry found himself blushing at this information, though not quite knowing why. Dumbledore smiled placidly before continuing. "You are, of course, still more than welcome in Gryffindor's common room, as you are and always will be a member of the House, but I believe your own set of rooms will provide the proper amount of space required for a father and his young daughter to thrive in. The entrance is guarded by Bower the Barmy, and I have extreme confidence he is competent enough to remember passwords."

Harry nodded again, his cheeks still feeling slightly flushed. "Sounds good, sir."

Dumbledore clapped his hands together. "Excellent! I will have a house-elf show you to your new rooms after we address the matters of your lessons and expenses, then."

Harry's stomach fluttered at this. "Expenses, sir?"

"It has come to my attention, by way of an owl from our close friend Remus Lupin, that your monetary situation is not quite as secure as one would wish it to be," said Dumbledore. "Years of tuition and supplies, adding your generous donations to the war effort and the extra taxing Minister Scrimgeour implemented for 'post war reconstruction', has had its affect on your funds, I am afraid."

_Extra taxing_. So that's where all of his parents' and Sirius' money had gone. Hearing that his money insecurities were due to the Ministry was enough to make Harry's blood boil, and it was difficult indeed for him to concentrate on Dumbledore's next words, when he would much rather determine which hex would cause the most pain and suffering for Scrimgeour and his Ministry cronies, if ever Harry got within curse-throwing distance of them again.

"It is indeed an unfortunate situation you currently find yourself in, Harry," said Dumbledore, sounding reserved and quite serious. "Minister Scrimgeour seemed particularly interested in draining your vault of as many Galleons as he could legally get away with, and I deeply regret that I could not convince him otherwise. The minister is a stubborn man, as we have found these past years, and is not one to be deterred from his actions easily."

_He did this because I wouldn't cooperate with the Ministry, I know it_, Harry thought, his insides burning with bitter fury. _He took my money because I refused to make him look better in the public's eye, even though I still managed to kill Voldemort. Because of him, I may not be able to care for Lydie in the way she deserves. The bloody sod. _

"Your final year of tuition has already been paid in full, so there is no need to fret there," continued Dumbledore, his bracing tone doing nothing to quench Harry's yearning for immediate redemption against Rufus Scrimgeour. "Your meals, of course, are covered as well, provided you eat them in the Great Hall, or manage to convince a special friend to visit your rooms for a late-night snack." Dumbledore's lips twitched as he said this, and Harry couldn't help a reluctant grin; Dobby, the house-elf that had hero-worshiped Harry ever since he freed the tiny elf in second year, would be more than happy to "bring Harry Potter sir his favourite sweets," if ever asked.

"You will still be able to visit Hogsmeade village, though purchasing items may prove unwise, Harry, given your current funds," Dumbledore cautioned. "It is, ultimately, up to you whether or not leaving Honeydukes without any of their famous chocolate is much too horrendous a concept to bear, but I trust you will use good judgement, and keep in mind the little child you have to clothe and care for."

Harry nodded his understanding curtly, feeling a stab of annoyance at the fact Dumbledore deemed it necessary to _remind_ him about his daughter's needs, as if Lydia's welfare wasn't always Harry's top priority.

"Of course, all of Miss Lydia's needs such as food, clothing, hygienic necessities and so on will be supplied to you throughout the year, with no extra charge," said Dumbledore promptly, holding up a hand to silence Harry when he opened his mouth to argue. "Please, Mr Potter. Although it may be correct Hogwarts' rules state no extra funding is to be given to a student for non-curricular reasons, they say nothing about an appreciative headmaster helping the young wizard who protected this school and its inhabitants by defeating a dangerous Dark Lord. It is the least I can do, Harry, for the immense service you have provided this school and this community, and far less than you deserve."

"I – thank you, sir," said Harry, suppressing one of his ever-present sighs. Though the thought of taking money from his headmaster to help care for his daughter – and only because of a defeat he was prophecied to make – was hard to accept, Harry knew refusing Dumbledore's offer was out of the question, especially when it was truly in the best interest of Lydia. Harry had always hated the thought of charity, whether the reason be because he had no parents or because he had no money, but when it came to keeping his daughter safe and happy, at the present time Harry would take what he could get.

"It is certainly no trouble, my dear boy," replied Dumbledore, in a voice that held a note of what Harry perceived to be indulgent affection. The bright-eyed headmaster clapped his hands again giving Harry a look that made him wonder whether Snape had put an overdose of Cheering Charm in his goblet during the feast.

"Now that we have that burdening business out of the way, it is time to discuss your schooling! Attending daily lessons with your peers is an option, if you feel you have missed out on that particular activity in past months. However, locating a suitable nanny for Miss Lydia would be required, as bringing her with you to your lessons would be tiresome and most distracting, for you and the other students. However, it could be as long as next week until we manage to hire one, which leaves us in a predicament of what to do until then. If that does not sound suitable for you, Harry, Remus is more than ready to come back to Hogwarts to assume his previous tutoring position for you once more, if that is your wish."

"Remus is coming back to Hogwarts?" Harry asked excitedly, his spirits perking up almost instantly. Suddenly, living amongst gossiping students with hardly any money didn't seem all that intolerable. "Brilliant!"

Dumbledore's eyes sparkled with mirth, Fawkes trilled cheerfully from his corner, and Lydia giggled and hit Harry on the chin again.

hdhdhdhdhdhdhdhdhdhdhd

"Granger."

Hermione paused in the middle of the corridor she was currently patrolling and frowned, wondering if she was just hearing things, or if Draco Malfoy had actually willingly called out to her. Glancing to her left proved her latter thought correct, as leaning against one of the stone window-sills, looking his usual calm, arrogant self, stood the Slytherin boy, his Head Boy badge glittering in the torchlight, and a casual smirk gracing his handsome, pale face.

Of course the last person Hermione wanted to see would find her in a deserted corridor on the sixth floor during the welcoming feast. Her first urge was to call the blond-haired boy a pathetic ferret and stomp off; her second urge was to hit him. She managed to refrain from both and instead gave a cordial, if slightly stiff, "Malfoy."

Malfoy's grey eyes were glittering almost as brightly as his Head Boy Badge. He chuckled quietly to himself as he remarked, "Already starting your patrols halfway through the welcoming feast, I see. Eager for the start of the year, are we?" The smug look he wore as he pushed himself off the wall had Hermione's urge to smack him increase dramatically.

"I assume there is something you want, Malfoy?" she asked instead in the same stiff tones as before, breathing heavily through her nose, her hand itching to pull her wand and turn the boy in front of her into something remarkably disgusting. _Think of Harry_, she said to herself in her head, but that had the unwanted effect of making her want to hit Malfoy even more.

Malfoy swaggered over to her, his pristine robes snapping about his ankles in a way only a Slytherin could achieve without looking a total fool. "Can't I simply wish a nice chat with my fellow Head student?" he asked her in a smooth voice, a blond eyebrow arched and his smirk unwavering.

"No," replied Hermione immediately.

"Hmm." Malfoy cocked his head to the side, as if contemplating Hermione. Hermione wished he wouldn't, as the feeling of those scrutinising grey eyes roving over her had always made Hermione feel equally uncomfortable and surly.

"Well, it's always been true, what they say about you being a clever witch," he finally said, sounding as though he were simply concluding that the weather outside was indeed seasonable. "Nothing ever gets by you, does it, Granger?"

Hermione shook off her shock from being complimented by Malfoy for the first time since they'd known each other and frowned. "The fact the Head Boy wasn't at this term's first prefect meeting didn't escape my notice either," she said pointedly, giving Malfoy an expectant glare. "I suppose you have a good excuse already made as to why you weren't on the Hogwarts Express, then?"

Malfoy shrugged nonchalantly. "It wasn't necessary for me to be there," he said, both sounding and looking unconcerned as he flicked an invisible spec of lint off his shoulder.

Hermione scoffed. "It wasn't necessary for you to meet with this year's new prefects and introduce yourself as Head Boy, one of their leaders and figures of authority?" she asked, her words sounding a tad more scathing than even she thought appropriate.

Malfoy's lips curved into another smirk. "I simply knew that you have plenty of leadership and_ figure _for the both of us, Granger," he said, giving her a rakish grin.

Hermione felt like screaming. Malfoy could be so ... so ... _infuriating_. "Just get on with it, Malfoy," she snapped impatiently. "What do you want?"

In a blink of an eye, Malfoy's smirk and smooth voice disappeared, leaving Hermione feeling momentarily taken aback. "I need to speak with Potter," he said in a low voice, all pretenses of boredom and unconcern gone, instead looking very serious, and the most un-pratish Hermione had ever witnessed of the blond-haired boy. He glanced edgily over his shoulder and shifted his weight from side to side, and it was then Hermione's sharp eyes noticed Maloy's calm composure wasn't really all that calm. His jaw was clenched rather tightly, from what Hermione could tell, a muscle was twitching in his left cheek and his hands were opening and closing into fists by his sides.

"He's not at the feast, and you always seem to know where your precious Wonder Boy has wandered off to," Malfoy continued, his aristocratic drawl suddenly sounding more forced to Hermione's ears than was usual.

Hermione felt her eyebrows knit in confusion at Malfoy's words before she could stop herself. "He's not in the Great Hall?"

"Unless he's changed his appearance since I've last seen him, no, he's not in the Great Hall," Malfoy snapped.

Hermione scowled. "You are an arsehole, Draco Malfoy," she declared with a great sniff, and turned on her heel, prepared to flounce off without another word and leave Malfoy with his questions unanswered.

"Granger, wait." A hand on her shoulder had Hermione swinging around so quickly Malfoy actually sucked in a breath of surprise and stepped back.

The feel of Malfoy's hand on her had Hermione's precarious hold on her composure immediately snap and disappear. "_Don't. Touch. Me_," she snarled as she pulled her wand from her robes and pointed it threateningly in the vicinity of the Slytherin boy's jugular, her heart pounding furiously in her chest, blood rushing to flush her cheeks as she kept her wand trained and steady, a painful hex ready to fly from her lips the second Malfoy made another wrong move.

A wand trained on his throat was enough to wipe the sneer from Malfoy's face. His eyes were widened slightly in alarm and he raised his hands in a defensive position, taking a few more steps back and away from Hermione's wandpoint. "All right, all right, don't get into a tizzy," he muttered, grimacing slightly when red sparks shot out the tip of Hermione's wand and spattered against the front of his robes. "I'm just asking for your cooperation here, Granger."

"And why should I help you, Malfoy?" Hermione asked forcefully, thoughts of Harry's life over the past few months making her voice shake with suppressed emotion as she continued to refrain herself from cursing the boy in front of her. "After all the grief and torment you have caused him, give me one good reason to help you speak with him."

"Because what has happened between us concerns me and him, not you, Granger," Malfoy said quietly, and for the first time since the beginning of their encounter, Hermione detected a hint of impatience in the Slytherin boy's tone. His voice raised slightly as he continued, "It's not your right to keep me from speaking with him, no matter how righteous and noble you may think yourself for doing so. I _need_ to see him, Granger, as soon as possible, and I am asking for your help." He then grimaced, and Hermione soon knew the reason why when he took a steadying breath and forced out a strangled, "Please."

Hermione didn't know what it was that made her hesitate, and then slowly lower her wand to her side. Perhaps it was the look of utter desperation she caught sight of in Malfoy's eyes when his calm mask slipped briefly during his explanation, or maybe it was simply because he had uttered the word _please_ for the first time in the Head Girl's presence. It could have been the small part inside her that wanted Harry to have help and Lydia two parents, even if the other was Malfoy. Perhaps Hermione wanted to believe in the sincerity she thought she could detect in Malfoy's actions, in the fact he hadn't called her a Mudblood once during their entire encounter, and that maybe for the first time since Hermione had known him, he wasn't actively trying to hurt and humiliate her friend.

"If he's not in the Great Hall, then your best bet is to check with the headmaster," she said finally, after a minute of silent deliberation on her part and much fidgeting and nervous hand-clenching on Malfoy's. "Professor Dumbledore will know where he is, if Harry isn't there with him."

Malfoy seemed to deliberate Hermione's words to himself before he nodded to her once, spun on his heel without another word and marched determinedly in the direction of where the guarded entrance to Professor Dumbledore's office was located.

_I did it for you, Harry, _Hermione thought to herself, suddenly feeling very anxious about her decision, and as she listened to Malfoy's footsteps fade down the echoing stone corridor long after the Head Boy had disappeared from sight, Hermione could only hope she hadn't made yet another monumental fuck up.

hdhdhdhdhdhdhdhdhdhd

Harry's first impression of Bower the Barmy was exactly that: _barmy_. Situated across the corridor and down two portraits from the Fat Lady of Gryffindor Tower, Bower stood in a crooked portrait with a frame of what Harry assumed to be wood, though the multi-coloured glittering finish made it difficult to tell. Bower himself wore a three-tiered purple and green crown (which pointed to him once being a king of some sort) with large golden baubles hanging down in his round, ruddy face, obscuring his vision quite spectacularly. The lace on his floor-length_ periwinkle _cape was orange, his maroon tunic was three sizes too small and missing half its buttons, his boots didn't match, and the throne in the background of his painting looked to be made entirely of cheese. Goose feathers spasmodically shot out of the end of Bower's rather crooked wand, and though his attire would suggest an inability to use anything resembling the word "sense", Bower the Barmy managed a rather daft smile when Harry stopped in front of him, showing off a complete set of golden teeth.

"Oi there, did you know you have a tiny human attached to you?" he exclaimed in surprise when he caught sight of Lydia, who was sleeping soundly in the crook of Harry's arm.

Harry stared at the odd portrait blankly. "Er," he replied articulately.

"'Er' be its name then? Or is it yours? Merlin, is it mine?" Bower scratched at his head with his wand, looking confused. "Hard to remember, you understand. I've been hanging up here for ages, and not many people stop to ask my name, you know."

"Shocking," said Harry, eying the three-tiered crown.

"Yes, yes, so it is," Bower said blithely. "But I assume you have a name as well, then? It's not Jack, is it? Had a Jack in the rooms once, and he was _hideously_ dull –"

"_Prevailing Phoenix_," Harry interrupted impatiently, quickly coming to the conclusion that Bower the Barmy was the portrait-version of Seamus Finnigan, and he most certainly did _not_ fancy having a conversation with a man who periodically spat out goose feathers while he talked.

"Merlin's spots, what an odd name! Never heard a name like that one before. It's French, isn't it? Those Parisian folk are quite intriguing, I'll tell you! Before I was placed in Hogwarts I hung in a lovely palace, and the owners were quite exciting people. Shame their heads were chopped, though ..."

Bower's voice became muffled as his portrait swung open, revealing the entrance to Harry and Lydia's new rooms, and before the portrait could swing closed and continue its rather bizarre monologue, Harry said a hasty goodbye and dashed inside, already deciding he'd need to ask Professor McGonagall about possibly switching guards. He'd rather Sir Cadogan, the irritating knight who could never stay on his fat pony, guarding the entrance to his rooms over Bower the Barmy, and that was saying quite a lot.

And speaking of his rooms, they were, as Dumbledore had said, rather small. The guarded entrance led directly into a small, stone bedroom with a tiny four-poster bed pushed into one corner, a desk and wardrobe pushed into the other, a minuscule fireplace on the wall to Harry's left which gave off just enough glow to light up half the room, and across from it two wooden doors leading to what he assumed were Lydia's nursery and the toilet.

Some quick exploration proved Harry correct, and he wasted no time in getting Lydia, who had fallen asleep on the short trek from Dumbledore's office to their new quarters, changed and settled into the tiny wooden cot pushed up against the wall underneath the window in her new room. Lydia went down without much fuss, luckily, and Harry gently kissed her on the forehead and whispered a goodnight into her soft hair before straightening from the cot and exiting the room, his tired body deciding for him that unpacking his and his daughter's things was a job best left for tomorrow.

He pulled the nursery door nearly to, leaving the latch unfastened and the door slightly ajar so as to be able to hear Lydia during the night if she awoke, and then made a closer inspection of his new bedroom. It certainly was tiny: there was hardly any room to manoeuvre between the bed and wardrobe, his trunk took up most of the empty space in front of the foot of Harry's bed, and the desk nearly blocked the entrance to the toilet. There was a two-paned window in front of his desk with a good view of the Forbidden Forest's tree line, and the colours of the drapes on the window and four-poster were Gryffindor red, reminding Harry very much of his old dormitory.

Harry sighed quietly to himself as his eyes roved over his new bedroom. It certainly would not be the same to sharing a room with Ron and the rest of his dorm mates, which over the years had proved exceedingly entertaining. Harry wasn't about to complain, however. Though being given special privileges from the headmaster had always embarrassed and angered the Gryffindor boy before, that now seemed insignificant, simply for the fact it was giving his daughter and him their own space, a sanctuary of sorts from the hustle and bustle of daily life in Hogwarts castle, somewhere to bring himself and Lydia back to when things became too overwhelming.

_This may not be Gryffindor Tower, but I_ _could definitely get used to this_, he thought to himself, a contented feeling beginning to creep into him as he kicked off his shoes, unheeding of where they landed, and fell back onto his new bed with a soft _thump_. The crimson and gold comforter was gloriously soft and warm, and Harry had to mentally debate with himself whether or not changing into his night clothes was really worth the effort of getting up. In the end it didn't matter what he decided, as just as the possibility of sleeping in his school robes was beginning to gain the upper hand, a loud knock sounded at his portrait entrance, followed quickly by Bower's muffled, flighty voice. Thinking it was Hermione and Ron coming to say a quick goodnight after their patrol duties as Head Girl and prefect, Harry eagerly pushed himself up from his bed and nearly skipped to the door, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten at the prospect of showing off his new rooms to his two best friends.

"Well, it's about time you came to see me!" Harry exclaimed as he pulled the door open with a flourish and spread his arms wide. He immediately wished he hadn't, however, when he saw that the person standing outside his rooms was neither Ron nor Hermione, nor anyone else he'd ever want knowing the entrance to his new rooms.

It was Draco Malfoy.


	5. Angry Words and Moments of Hysteria

**Disclaimer**: None is owned by me. All is owned by JK Rowling, etc. etc. No money is being made from this fic.

**Author's Note**: Hello all! Just wanted to say a quick thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to all my lovely readers and reviewers who have given me nothing but encouraging words as we continue on through the story. And I've also the sad duty to tell you all that I am off on holiday for the next thirteen days, a trip which does NOT involve any internet connect whatsoever (sob). So it will inevitably push back my final editing/posting of the next chapter, but never fear, for I shall work endlessly before I leave/once I return to get it up and ready to be read! And on that note, enjoy!

**Chapter Five: Angry Words and Moments of Hysteria**

"What are _you_ doing here?" Harry finally managed to ask, after many seconds of sputtering about like an oxygen-deprived fish.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and gave Harry a most disdainful look. "I've come to _talk_, obviously," he sneered, and without even asking, pushed his way past Harry and into the tiny room beyond.

"Hey, what –?" Harry spun around and watched in angered disbelief as the other boy stopped in front of the nursery door and turned slowly on the spot, scrutinising Harry's new bedroom critically. "Now wait just a minute, Malfoy. You can't just barge in here, expecting me to –"

"You're mad if you think you may tell me what I can and cannot do, Potter," said Malfoy harshly, in a tone so reminiscent of Professor Snape, the Potions Master of Hogwarts, it had Harry wincing before he could stop himself. He faced Harry fully and levelled him with a cold glare. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to shut the door, I don't wish to have any of your hero-worshipping Gryffindor nitwits hearing this conversation."

Harry puffed himself up indignantly, prepared to defend his Housemates. "Don't you call my friends that, you bloody –"

"Just shut the door, Potter," Malfoy snapped impatiently, cutting Harry off mid-insult.

Harry snapped his mouth shut with an audible click and, after much consideration and more than a few angry huffs and furious looks thrown Malfoy's way, he pushed the door closed. He then crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wooden surface behind him, every aspect of his posture defensive as he eyed the other boy standing before him, his chin raised defiantly as he waited for Malfoy to make the first move.

The Slytherin's tell-tale smirk flashed across his face briefly as Malfoy eyed Harry's stance, but then disappeared behind his stoic mask soon after, leaving his facial expression inscrutable once more as he looked Harry over, his wrinkled brow the only outward sign of any tension the other boy may have been feeling.

"So," Malfoy finally began, after what seemed the most nerve-wracking minute of Harry's life thus far.

He then paused, seemingly unsure of how to proceed from there and, feeling impatient and on edge, Harry snapped, "So, what?"

Malfoy sneered at him again. "Don't be dim, Potter," he bit out through gritted teeth. "You know perfectly well why I'm here."

Harry did know perfectly well why Malfoy was there. That didn't mean he was going to say so. "I can't read minds, Malfoy, so maybe you should be more specific," he said archly back, not caring if he was being difficult, but liking very much the thought of making Malfoy as uncomfortable as Harry himself was beginning to feel.

Malfoy blew out an explosive breath and gave Harry a most incredulous look. "You're bloody insufferable, Potter, did you know that?" he muttered, pushing his hands through his blond hair, messing it up in apparent frustration.

Harry gave an unhelpful shrug of his shoulders, saying nothing, refusing to give Malfoy the satisfaction of a response.

"Argh!" The Slytherin boy began to pace the small distance between the four-poster and the nursery door, muttering tersely under his breath and shooting Harry the occasional furious look.

"The baby, Potter. I'm here about the baby," he snapped out finally after a half dozen tightly-spaced revolutions, during which Harry didn't speak a word. He turned to glare expectantly at Harry. "You know, the one you were holding in Madam Malkin's two weeks ago? The one with my coloured hair, and which I previously had no idea existed? Ringing any bells?"

Harry bit his tongue and nodded, sharply, once. "Ringing a few, yes," he said, albeit a tad grudgingly.

"I'm sure it does." Both boys continued to glare at each other, the only sound in the room the impatiently rhythmic _tap-tapping _of Malfoy's shiny black shoe against the stone floor as he too crossed his arms and took on a defensive stance, mirroring Harry.

"Well?" he burst out after a few tensely silent minutes of continued glaring and no speaking. "Do you not have anything to say to me about it?"

Harry gave a tremulous sigh and asked, "What would you like me to say, Malfoy?" suddenly feeling wrung out and tired, wanting nothing more than to have the blond boy leave his bedroom. It had been a long, tiring day, and Harry couldn't deal with Malfoy now, didn't _want _to deal with him. He leaned his head back against the wooden door behind him and closed his eyes, wishing for Malfoy to disappear and leave him in peace.

A muffled growl informed Harry of the fact Malfoy was not of the mindset to be beating around any bushes, and the other boy abruptly pulling him forward by the scruff of his robes confirmed it.

"I want you to tell me how the bloody fuck this happened, Potter!" he spat out, shaking Harry roughly by the grip he had of his robes and sneering spectacularly, his face scant inches away from Harry's own.

While the blond's actions were most certainly ferocious, Harry did not appreciate Malfoy's close-and-personal attempt at intimidation. In fact, it made him all the more furious, and caused his eyes to narrow dangerously behind his crooked spectacles.

"First of all," he said, imitating Malfoy's spitting tone as he jerked out of the other boy's grasp and righted both his clothes and his glasses, "keep your slimy hands off me. Second,_ shaking _me is not the best of tactics to get me to cooperate, you stupid arse.And thirdly, how the bloody hell do you think this happened, Malfoy? Are you just trying to be your usual prat of a self, or shall I draw up some diagrams?"

"This is not a time to be making jokes, Potter!" Malfoy didn't grab for Harry again, but he did shove his hand into his robe pocket, undoubtedly resting it where his wand was currently located. His gaze was piercingly cold as it bored into Harry, so cold Harry had to physically refrain from shivering unpleasantly as he stared determinedly back. "And you still haven't answered my question."

"Well Malfoy, when two people really love each other – or, in our case, firewhisky –"

"Gah!" Malfoy's left eye had actually started to twitch, he was so angry. He began pacing once more, his hands out of his robe pockets and back to raking through his blond hair, though this time they were yanking painfully at the root. "I swear, Potter, if you're purposely being this obtuse, I'm going to shove your ugly spectacles into a very tight place!"

Harry snorted derisively. "I'd like to see you try," he said haughtily.

Malfoy paused, turned his head to look at Harry and shot him an infuriating smirk. "I've stuck things there before."

That hit a sore spot, and warranted a large dose of stomach-clenching shame, a feeling which had Harry almost wanting to double over, though he wouldn't give Malfoy the satisfaction of proving his biting words effective. "And that's what's landed us here, nearly twelve months later," he retorted back, his posture still as straight and defensive as before. "The fact that you couldn't seem to keep yourself from _sticking things there_."

Malfoy gave him a glare that would have had Harry dropping on the spot if looks could kill. Luckily they could _not _kill, and so it did not deter Harry from shooting one of equal heat back.

Malfoy breathed heavily through his nose. "I did not come here to discuss the absolute disaster that was me attending that party twelve months ago," he said through pursed lips, giving Harry the brief, bizarre image of his Aunt Petunia swishing about in Slytherin robes while she cleaned the kitchen. "I came here to find out if the baby is mine."

Harry's eyes narrowed, his feelings of anger and indignation morphing into that of confusion. Malfoy wanted to know if the baby belonged to him? After all the sniping just seconds before, not to mention what had happened in Diagon Alley, the stories and photographs about Harry and Lydia in all the papers, and the bloody letter Harry had sent back in July, Malfoy was still questioning whether Lydia was _his_? The blond pillock wasn't actually serious, was he?

"You're not serious?" he asked slowly, voicing his scrambling thoughts and staring at Malfoy in disbelief. When Malfoy continued to stare expectantly at him without responding, Harry let out a faint laugh, before flopping onto the lid of his trunk and burying his face into his hands.

"This is so typical," he muttered tiredly into his palms, shaking his head back and forth slowly, unable to comprehend the situation he currently found himself in. Why these things always seemed to happen to him, Harry would never understand. He pinched his eyes shut tightly to brace himself, and then opened them and brought his face to look back up at Malfoy, who was still watching him, waiting for an answer.

"Yes, she is yours, Malfoy," Harry muttered in a resigned voice, his eyes darting down to his fingers, which were scrunched tightly into his robes, no longer able to look Malfoy in the eye, not wanting to see his reaction.

There were many long, painful seconds in which all Harry heard was the ticking of his watch and the pounding of his rapidly beating heart as he waited for Malfoy to speak. When the silence became too unbearable and he felt as though his chest and head were both ready to explode with nerves, Harry finally glanced up at the Slytherin boy standing before him, and was able to witness Malfoy's face, usually so staid and cold, flinch and eventually crumple with emotion.

Malfoy's abrupt loss of control over his emotions was even worse than in Madam Malkin's, and Harry found himself shocked to be witnessing the other boy completely coming undone emotionally for the second time in as many weeks. "I ... how –" Malfoy stuttered out, and Harry watched in avid fascination as the Slytherin pressed a shaking hand to his forehead and groped behind him with his other, finding purchase on the desk ledge and leaning heavily against it, as though holding on for dear life. He looked as if he were about to fall to the floor in a dead faint, he was turning so pale and shaky, and although the fall would most certainly end in a nasty bump to his pristinely blond head, Harry was finding himself most reluctant to lend the other boy a helping hand. Though he understood perfectly well just how upended Malfoy was most certainly feeling, a large part of the Gryffindor boy was hoping he _would_ fall. On his arse. Stupid git.

"This – this is ..." Malfoy seemed to be having difficulty speaking, though Harry wasn't all that surprised. It _must _be difficult, trying to talk while taking in such great gulps of air, and Malfoy was currently acting as though he'd been holding his breath underwater all his life, and couldn't understand the concept of exhaling.

"This ... this is a d-disaster!" he finally rasped out, his cheeks beginning to flush due to the over-intake of oxygen he was receiving. "I – I didn't know ... I thought ..."

"I think we can both agree it's quite obvious you _didn't_ think, Malfoy," Harry said waspishly, still not feeling very sympathetic toward the other boy, who was struggling to regain his breath. "Neither of us were thinking very clearly that night," he continued in a much less hostile tone, though still with heat, "but it's too late to second guess actions that have already happened. Regretting what we did isn't going to make everything go back to the way it was, so you'd best forget about that." He paused to the let words sink in, and then impatiently burst out, "And for Merlin's sake, start breathing like a normal person, will you? I'm feeling faint just watching you."

That earned Harry a pathetic attempt at a glare and a wheezy, "Fuck you, Potter," but it also had the positive effect of distracting Malfoy enough to allow his breathing to begin to slow, and soon he was back to using a much more regulated breathing pattern, though still looking rather flushed. He stood still for a moment, his fists clenched tightly by his sides and his eyes widened almost to the point of looking comical as he tried to forcibly quell his impending panic. Harry, who had had his fair share of panicked moments in the last year, was still feeling malicious enough to start sniggering quietly at the expression the other boy wore, though he soon after fell silent when Malfoy abruptly jumped away from Harry's desk and began his tight pacing once more, though at a much more fevered tempo.

"This is unbelievable," he was muttering, to himself or to Harry the Gryffindor boy wasn't quite sure, as he began raking his hands through his hair, once again tugging painfully on it. Harry had the mind to dimly realise this was the first time he had ever seen the other boy's hair look as messy as his own, something which he would have pointed out had he not thought Malfoy's head might actually burst if he did. As it were, Malfoy didn't seem to notice the state of his mussed up hair, or was simply too distracted to care, as he continued to pace round and round Harry's room, murmuring words mostly non-discernible to Harry's ears, excluding the few fragments he caught when the other boy's pacing led him nearer to the four-poster and trunk.

"... Bloody mad ... me, a father! ... what Lucius would say ... supposed to have a protection charm ... Harry bleeding Potter ... fucking typical ..."

The quiet muttering and rapid pacing continued for many minutes, long enough for Harry to gaze longingly at the bed by his elbow, his limbs positively _tingling_ with the desire to burrow under the bedclothes and not come out until school was over. Or until Malfoy left. Which ever came first.

"I hope you realise we will have to get married now," Malfoy said abruptly, stopping in the middle of the room and addressing Harry for the first time since he had started his third bout of pacing.

Harry's brain, which had fallen into a sort of tired stupor as he watched the Slytherin boy pace, required a few seconds for Malfoy's words to slowly sink in.

"_What_?" he yelped when they finally did, jumping up from his school trunk and gaping at Malfoy incredulously. He felt as though his eyes were as wide as they could go without literally popping out of his skull. "Marriage? Me and _you_? But we – I mean, you ... wha _– _and how d'you figure _that_?"

Malfoy huffed and said, "Well, it's the _sensible_ thing to do, Potter," as though Harry were a total idiot for not coming to the same conclusion.

"There is nothing even _resembling_ sense in the statement you just made, Malfoy," spluttered Harry a tad hysterically, feeling as though he had just been pitched headfirst into an alternate reality. If having Draco Malfoy's baby had seemed a difficult concept for Harry to accept before, it was _nothing _to the thought of actually having to _marry _the blond dolt.

"It's what people do when things like this happen, Potter," Malfoy retorted, his voice sounding just as hysterical as Harry's now. "People get pissed, they shag. They get preggers, they marry. It's how things in the world work."

"Not in my bloody world, it doesn't!" Harry couldn't wrap his head around the conversation he and Malfoy were currently having. Marriage? Mere minutes ago they were practically at each other's throats, throwing insults around as though it were nothing new to them (which it wasn't), and now Malfoy was telling him they had to get married? Harry was tempted to pinch himself, just to be sure this wasn't some twisted nightmare he was trapped in.

Malfoy had straightened to his full height and was glaring fiercely down at Harry now. "It's the only logical step from here, Potter!" he said in stiff tones, and Harry blinked disbelievingly at this. To Malfoy's eyes it may have seemed the next logical step, but to Harry's, it was proof the other boy had gone mental. "It's how things happen in the magical world, and I don't give a damn if it's not this way in 'your world' – Muggles are the thickest, most ignorant people I have ever come into contact with, and they don't understand the ways of good familial upbringing like the wizarding community!"

"'Good familial upbringing'?" Harry repeated mockingly. "What the bloody hell would you know about 'good familial upbringing'? You're the _disinherited_ son of a convicted Death Eater –"

Malfoy's neck flushed red as he interrupted with a snarled, "At least I _had_ a father, you little orphaned wanker!" Apparently Lucius Malfoy's disinheriting him was still a sore spot for the blond-haired boy.

Not even bothering to respond to the slight against him, Harry threw his hands up in mock triumph. "This is my point!" he said, gesturing between himself and Malfoy wildly with his hands. "You and I can't be in the same room for more than five minutes before we're throwing insults and hexes, and you're proposing marriage? We can't stand one another, Malfoy! How can we enter into a bond like that and not kill each other immediately afterwards?"

"It's not about whether or not we can stand each other, Potter," Malfoy said slowly, as though trying to explain two and two made four to a teary-eyed toddler. "It's about providing strong family values to the heir of the Malfoy family. It's bad enough it was born out of wedlock; it's our _duty_ to marry, and keep the child in a highly-respected household!"

"Firstly," said Harry, drawing in a furious breath, "your_ heir_ is a 'she' and not an 'it', so bloody well stop calling her that. Secondly, there is no way in Merlin's ranky old shorts I'm marrying you out of _duty to keep the child in a highly-respected household_. Any household involving your last name will not be highly-respected no matter what you try, and you can shove off if you think I'm agreeing to a lifetime of misery, all for a sense of _duty_. What a load of tosh!"

"Yeah, well, you should have thought about that before you failed to mention to me you weren't protected that night," Malfoy sneered.

Harry stared at Malfoy for a long moment, disgust and rage warring inside him as he desperately fought the urge to throw Malfoy out his two-paned window.

"You are truly a careless, thoughtless, ignorant, _pathetic _excuse of a wizard if you put the blame of that on me," he said quietly, his voice shaking with the rage he wished to use against Malfoy, but refrained himself.

"It was your arse."

"It was your cock!" Harry shouted angrily at the blond, his frustration pouring out before he could stop it. He winced when Lydia's cries floated in through the nursery door soon after, an inevitable occurrence after the volume of his shout, but irritating all the same. With an accusing glare shot Malfoy's way, he stomped over to the baby's room and wrenched the door open, not even bothering with the torches.

"This conversation isn't over, Potter!" Malfoy had followed him into the darkened nursery, spitting at him like the snake his House represented.

"Bugger off," Harry snapped over his shoulder, before he bent down and pulled Lydia into his arms, cradling her close to his shoulder and trying to soothe her crying by bouncing gently on the spot.

"You –" Malfoy faltered as Harry turned and the blond spotted Lydia resting in his arms. The sight of the little baby girl seemed to have dried up Malfoy's words, and he stood there for seconds looking as though he didn't know whether to approach Harry and his daughter or turn tail and bolt out of the room. His fuming anger at Harry seemed to steel his resolve, however, as he took a deep breath, drew himself up once more, and said in a stony voice, "We are not finished discussing this, Potter."

"We are if you mention that ridiculous 'm' word again," Harry mumbled, but he did not insist Malfoy leave again, even though he desperately wanted the other boy to go away.

Malfoy let out a frustrated sigh as he followed Harry back into his bedroom. "I don't understand why you're being so bloody impossible about this," he growled over Lydia's cries. "People get married all the time."

"People who _love _each other get married all the time," countered Harry. "Not school rivals who get drunk and shag once." He turned to face the other boy, arms still bouncing a crying Lydia, and caught the look of confusion that flitted across Malfoy's pale face as he came to a halt as well.

"What does love have to do with it?" he asked, his head cocked to the side and his voice reflecting his expression, and it was Harry's turn to feel confused.

"What does love have to do with ..." Then he understood. "Oh, for the love of –! You are an arse, did you know that?"

"Yes, it's been a rather popular declaration tonight," Malfoy said with a ghost of a smirk, confusing Harry even more.

Harry stared at him for a moment, then shook his head sadly and sighed. "How you can even speak as though emotion is a foreign concept to you is lost on me, Malfoy."

"Emotion is weakness," answered Malfoy immediately, as though reciting from a cue.

"And that is why you're going to live cold and alone for the rest of your life."

That drew more colour to Malfoy's face. He said testily, "Just because I don't prance about like some swotty little Gryffindor, full to bursting of love for all things cute and furry ..."

"Better than a cold-hearted snake!"

"That's a way of survival!"

"Survival from what? This?" Harry indicated Lydia with a nod of his head toward his shoulder, where she was still whimpering against. "Need to protect your emotions from the big bad baby, Malfoy? Is that it?"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed at Harry's taunt. "It is not so simple, Potter, and you know it," he said through his tensed lips, his eyes darting to Lydia, his hands clenching by his sides as he did so.

Harry scoffed. "Whatever, Malfoy. If you want to act as ridiculous, I'm not one to stop you. I just hope you understand how pathetic you're being about all this."

"Pathetic?" Malfoy spat, and Harry could almost feel the icy bite of venom in the other boy's voice as he fired up once more. His voice grew louder as he continued furiously, "_I'm _the pathetic one in this situation? Forgive me if I find _that_ a tad ridiculous!"

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Harry's voice began growing in volume also, as did Lydia's wails. He absently patted her on the the back, trying to be soothing, all the while glaring at Malfoy, waiting for his answer.

Malfoy said in a superior sort of tone, "_I'm _not the one who kept the existence of his child from her other father, and then had no explanation whatsoever for him when a quick pop into Madam Malkin's turned his bloody world upside-down! I also didn't hide away after the fact, and leave all explanations to the bloody papers!" His breathing became shallower and his voice broke as he added, "Do you even know how that _feels_, Potter? To glance at the _Daily Prophet_ every morning for two weeks, only to see the picture of a baby that looks remarkably like yourself plastered over the front pages, a baby you'd only just found out about? To wonder if you're ever going to see the child again and have all your numerous questions answered, because just the previous year her other father had disappeared from school without a trace?"

The hurt that was bleeding from Malfoy's voice would have been enough to leave Harry feeling full of guilt and rather choked himself, had it not been for the fact he was steamingly furious by what the other boy had insinuated.

"Don't you dare paint me the bad one here, Malfoy," he said quietly, clutching Lydia closer still, trying to keep his voice down for his daughter's sake. "I may have made some mistakes regarding your role in Lydia's life, but I did _not_ keep you from knowing about her until Diagon Alley."

It was Malfoy's turn to scoff disbelievingly. "And how, pray tell, did you come to the conclusion?" he sneered.

"The bloody letter I sent you a month ago, that's how!" Harry shouted loudly, foregoing any attempts at being quiet for Lydia's sake, the disbelief and anger and hurt he had been feeling coursing through him and pouring out of his voice, showing in his expression.

At the mention of a letter, Malfoy's whole self froze.

"Yes, that's right, a letter," Harry continued on ruthlessly. "A letter that explained my disappearance and Lydia's eventual appearance, one which _you _never answered. What have you got to say to that, eh?" He attempted his own triumphant smirk. "Going to deny _it's_ existence now, or simply tell me you have something personal against receiving and opening your post?"

Harry paused then to savour his victory over the blond, preparing to revel in Malfoy's blustering as the other boy tried to come up with a suitable response. He was sorely disappointed, however, as a few moments passed in which Malfoy continued to stare at Harry blankly, his stiff stance making him look as though he'd been hit with a body-bind, a severely confused expression on his face.

When minutes passed and he failed to detect any movement or signs of awareness from the blond Slytherin, Harry frowned and prodded with a hesitant, "Malfoy?" He then grimaced, his own ears able to detect a disgusting hint of concern in his voice.

The sound of his name seemed to shake Malfoy back into reality, and with a dazed sort of look his eyes focussed back on Harry, who was jiggling Lydia in his arms absently, gazing back at Malfoy uncertainly, feeling slight trepidation about what the unpredictable Slytherin boy was going to do next.

Malfoy, for his part, was still looking confused as he gave a sudden shake of his head, as though trying to gather his scattered thoughts in order. His fringe had fallen into his eyes when he looked back up at Harry, undoubtedly from the multiple times the blond had pulled his fingers through his hair, but it did not prevent Harry from seeing Malfoy's eyes suddenly widen as though in understanding, before narrowing dangerously in what Harry could only assume was fury.

"Snape," he growled out, in a whisper as fierce as the look he wore. This served to confuse Harry even more, but before he could even open his mouth to question Malfoy about it, the Slytherin had spun around and shoved his way out of the portrait entrance, the door and Bower's canvas both slamming shut behind him.

Ten minutes later after Malfoy's abrupt departure, Harry was still standing in the middle of his new bedroom, cradling a once again sleeping Lydia in his arms and wondering what had just happened.

DMHPDMHPDMHP

"Good evening, Professor Snape."

Severus Snape paid no mind to the passing ghost's greeting as he stalked his way through the dungeon corridors, his customary black robes swishing about his ankles and a spectacular sneer gracing his ever-sallow face. Just looking at the expression he wore would have most of Hogwarts' inhabitants steering clear of the Potions Master on this particular night, as everyone who knew the ill-tempered professor understood perfectly well just how much Severus detested the first night of the new school year. Returning Slytherins staying up all night in the common room, talking loudly with each other as they rehashed just how pathetically boring their summers without their comrades had been; first-years huddling in their dormitories, trying their hardest not to cry for their mummies for fear of retribution from the older students; and beginning prefects wielding their new-found power by prowling the darkened corridors, taking House points and threatening detentions to those simply trying to get to the loo. Combining this with the horrible realisation that lessons with incompetent half-wits would be starting the next day always left Professor Snape with a rather heaving headache, and a most sincere desire to _not _be the Head of Slytherin House. The fact Minerva, Filius and Pomona actually reveled in their responsibility as Heads of Hogwarts' Houses was a concept Severus would never grasp. The Potions professor was not one for teacher-student bonding (as most of Hogwarts population knew), and would much rather spend his free time conducting his experiments in his laboratory, not tending to sniffling, snot-nosed little brats all year long. But of course, whenever Severus deemed it necessary to take his concerns to the headmaster about the Head of Slytherin position, the insufferable old fool would simply smile secretly and say it was good for Severus' health, then send the Potions Master on his way with a lemon drop and a wink.

That was how Severus found himself flicking the disgustingly sugary sweets impatiently from his fingers as he entered his rooms in the dungeons late after th welcoming feast, his headache finally beginning to diminish as the guarded entrance slid closed behind him with a soft hiss, effectively ensuring him no interruptions from whiny little children for the rest of the night. He flicked his wand and soothing music soon filled his stone sitting room, followed quickly by a hearty fire crackling in the grate, and a tumbler with a generous amount of firewhisky held in his hand. He seated himself in his favourite leather winged-back and closed his eyes, the fingers of one hand pressed against his temple, rubbing slowly in an attempt to dispel the throbbing behind his eyes, visions of exploding cauldrons making him shudder unpleasantly as he remembered his dreaded double Potions lesson with the first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins first thing in the morning. He could tell simply from the Sorting this year that he was going to be dealing with a rather large group of half-wit Neville Longbottoms, and that thought alone was enough to make Severus down his firewhisky in one go.

The scorching sensation had barely begun to fade from Severus' throat before there was a sudden commotion at the entrance of his quarters. Hurried knocks, followed quickly by an ominous thump and muffled swearing had the Potions professor out of his chair and swooping over to the locked entrance before he could even set his drink down.

"Whoever is at my door making that hideous racket had best be dying or I will –" Severus was snarling as he waved his hand and the wall slid open. He stopped short when he saw who it was standing there.

"Mr Malfoy," he said, his voice low, concealing his confusion well. He eyed his favoured pupil's distressed appearance, thinking it was much too late in the evening for Draco to need to discuss Head Boy matters. "May I inquire as to why you are banging my door down at such an hour?"

Draco didn't answer him. He merely stared at the Potions professor, his chest heaving, giving Severus the impression that his student had run all the way to his private quarters from wherever it was he had come from. His hands were rested by his sides, his knuckles white from how tightly he was clenching them, proving that the boy was most upset about something, and by the furious look Draco was using as he stared at Severus, he was upset with _him_.

When Draco did not begin to speak, instead continuing to glare at him angrily with his hands clenched, Severus grew impatient. "You will answer me, Draco, or I will close this door on you now," he whispered smoothly, the warning clear in his voice. Draco knew well that he was not one to be toiled with, no matter how much he may indulge the boy during his lessons.

Draco continued to glare for a moment longer, before he took a deep breath, looked Severus straight in the eye and said, "I'm here about the letter, _sir_."

The way his student had forced out the word _sir_ left Severus with little doubt as to which letter he was referring, and he had to resist the urge to rub at his temples again. There was only one letter's existence that could earn such a strong reaction from Draco once he learned of it, and this was a difficult conversation Severus had been hoping to leave at least until tomorrow, preferably during afternoon tea when he was most at ease. That was quite obviously not going to happen, though Severus really could not feel all that surprised about Draco showing up already; the boy was resourceful, if not determined.

Hoping the night would not end in high-theatrical hysterics, Severus stepped to the side and beckoned the boy into his rooms with a sharp nod of his head. Draco snorted in a derisive manner once before striding past the Potions Master, and Severus resisted the urge to hex his student when the Head Boy sat forcefully in his favoured winged-back he had just previously vacated, his head resting against the polished leather, his eyes glittering in silent challenge. Severus forced himself to ignore it.

"Give me my letter," he ordered not a second after the entrance had sealed closed, and before Severus could even turn fully to face him.

The Potions professor raised an eyebrow at the command, but acquiesced nonetheless. He set his glass down on a nearby table, then strode over to his pupil, pulled out the parchment envelope that had taken residence in his breast pocket for four long weeks, and handed it over to Draco without a word. He then turned and gazed off into the fireplace, his hands behind his back as he studied the flickering yellow and orange flames, giving his student privacy to read his letter.

There was no need for Severus to inquire as to what the letter from Harry Potter contained. He had opened it without a second thought almost five weeks ago, originally thinking it a prank being pulled on his charge. The contents of the rambling correspondence had left Severus surprised and more than disgusted with the implications he had found there. To think the unknown parentage of Potter's child had turned out to be the young man Severus had taken under his tutelage for the summer had left the Potions Master appalled and disappointed with the realisation Draco could be so careless as to father a child during a drunken encounter. And with _Potter_, no less.

As far as Severus had been privy to, the two boys had hated each other, and Severus readily admitted to himself, as well as anyone who questioned, that he had aided in that schoolboy rivalry on more than one occasion. He had reveled in the knowledge that Draco had refused from the start to treat precious Potter like the saint the infuriating boy had been perceived to be, and all for far-fetched luck he'd had while still wearing his nappies. It had made Severus feel _proud_, to know Draco had not fallen into the clutches of Potter's celebrity, and had treated the Gryffindor boy with nothing less than hostility ...

That is, until a year ago.

"Why did you do this?" Draco's harsh voice suddenly whispered through the suppressive silence in the stone quarters, the sound of crunching parchment soon following. Severus supposed his student had finished reading, and was still too stunned to begin yelling. For this Severus was grateful, and he took advantage of Draco's current silence to take a moment and deliberate an appropriate answer.

When it really came down to it, Severus himself did not fully understand why he had decided to keep the letter from Draco. The sensible part of the Potions professor's mind would say he had done it to ensure peace and quiet for the remainder of his time spent in close quarters with the boy, and prevent any unwanted hysterics until the beginning of the school year. The sneering part would adamantly insist he had done it only to make Potter suffer by denying the boy a response, one of Severus' favourite pastimes. Then, a much smaller, more unknown part of the Potions Master would speak up, whispering meekly that perhaps he had done it because, though he would kill before admitting it to anyone, he truly cared for Draco Malfoy, and had only wanted to see the boy unhurt and able to live his last year in Hogwarts as a child, and not have to grow up quickly because he _had_ a child.

"I did it for your own good," Severus finally said, his back still turned to Draco as he watched the flickering flames lick and spark over the blazing log set in the middle of the fire. "For your own good and my peace of mind. Had you known of the letter before now, you would have caused a hysterical uproar and would have been most impossible to deal with for the remainder of the holiday, something which I refused to deal with."

He heard the scraping of the chair legs as Draco jumped to his feet, and the pounding of the boy's footsteps before he stopped just behind Severus' shoulder, his breathing harsh.

"You had no right!" Draco seethed, and Severus didn't need to turn around to know the look of cold fury his charge would be wearing. "You had no right to interfere with this! With my _life_!"

"Because you are clearly doing well enough on your own," Severus remarked drily, whirling around to look down – or level, he noted with a pang of dismay – at Draco. "A father at seventeen. Clearly the mark of a well-adjusted teenager."

"Better than a lonely old snark!" Draco shouted, in a tone most petulant, Severus found. "A middle-aged, miserable wizard who hides in a dungy old dungeon for sixteen years, pining away for someone who hasn't even been _alive_ –"

"You will hold your tongue now, or your spawn will never know her other father," Severus hissed, cutting Draco off, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he glared his student down.

Draco immediately fell silent, though the look he wore was mutinous.

"If you are trying to prove to me your maturity, waffling on about things you could never understand is certainly not the way to go about it," Severus continued in a low, dangerous voice usually reserved for when cauldrons were blown up or students were poisoned during his Potions lessons. "And if you continue in this manner I shall have to ask you to leave my quarters." He then softened his tone, and continued with much less rancour, "I know you are feeling troubled, but I will not deal with a petty child tonight, Draco, not when I know you are capable of being more sensible."

Draco glared for a moment more, then seemed to shudder and finally deflate before Severus' eyes. He let out a choked laugh, before dropping his head into his hands. "Troubled?" he gasped, and the turmoil he could hear in the boy's voice had Severus resisting a cringe. "My whole bloody life is turned upside-down, and you say I'm feeling _troubled_? I'm a father, Professor!" Draco raised his arms up in front of him, spread wide as though to indicate himself, a look of defeat about his face. "I had a drunken shag with Harry sodding Potter, then twelve months later a baby turns up! A baby I _should _have known about sooner, mind, had you not decided to rummage through my post! Merlin!" He gave another laugh, this one nearing the edge of hysterical, before flopping back into the leather winged-back behind him and covering his face with his hands once more.

Faced with such a show of feeling from Draco, Severus did not quite know how to proceed. In actuality he was quite astonished to learn Lucius Malfoy's only son was capable of such gut-wrenching emotion, when the Potions professor knew how hard the elder Malfoy would have trained his heir to remain cold and prideful in such times as these, all for the good of the family name. Now, however, there was nothing remotely Malfoy about the shaking, upset boy before him, and while in most cases Severus detested giving any form of comfort to his students, he felt that tonight warranted an exception. He approached the wing-backed chair silently, looked down at the mussed head of his grief-stricken student, then placed a hand solidly on his shuddering shoulder.

Draco didn't give a start when Severus touched him, but the hold on his shoulder seemed to steady him enough to pull his face away from his hands and look watery-eyed up at Severus. "What do I do now, sir?" he asked, voice sounding as broken as his expression looked. "What am I supposed to do? What do I say to my friends, my peers, my House? Fuck, what do I say to _Potter_? How am I supposed to handle this? I-I don't even know her name, for Merlin's sake!" he suddenly cried out, and it took Severus a moment to understand Draco was referring to the baby. "I'm not ready for this, sir, I'm not! Who's ready for this at seventeen? _Who_?"

Not sure if this was a rhetorical question or one meant for an answer, Severus paused before saying calmly, "Apparently Mr Potter is."

"Well, of course Saint Potter is ready for this, he can do anything," Draco muttered as though on reflex, then abruptly smacking himself on the forehead. "Merlin, what's wrong with me? I've not the right to say that, have I? Potter's been taking care of everything by himself for four months! And what did _I _do in that time? Helped you with your useless experiments, that's what!"

At this unseemly outburst, Severus held his tongue. With great effort.

"And how exactly am I supposed to stay Head Boy, now that I'm a teenaged father?" Draco continued listing his desperate questions, not noticing the icy glare drilling through the side of his head. "So much for being a proper example to the younger students, eh? Once this gets out, Dumbledore'll have me turning in my badge for sure, and after all the work I put in to get the position ... But surely this won't be able to be kept under lock, right? I mean, just looking at her hair and you know she's mine! It'd be impossible to keep that hidden ... unless I can convince Potter to charm her hair a different colour? But that means talking to Potter again, and I can't do that ... but I've got to, haven't I? I can't just go on like before and ignore Potter, not when I know that that – that –"

"'Baby' is the term I believe you are referring, Mr Malfoy," Severus sighed, his ever-present headache thrumming painfully through his temples as he listened to his student's hysterical tirade.

"Right, right, baby," Draco said distractedly, not even looking at Severus as he pushed his hands through his hair, a habit Severus knew his student possessed only when under great strain. "Merlin, Professor, I've got a baby. A baby! What am I supposed to do with a baby? I don't know anything about them!"

"I'm sure Potter would be most generous in teaching you how to care for the child, Draco, if you so desired to learn –"

"That's just it, though, isn't it?" Draco interrupted him impatiently. "I don't _know_ what I want! On one hand, I have this strong urge to step up and do the honourable thing, fix it all by marrying Potter and becoming a part of the baby's life. Mostly, though, I just want to run away, or hide in a broom cupboard until this all goes away!"

That was enough for Severus. "Spoken like a true Hufflepuff," he sneered, and the taunt had Draco's head snapping over to him, stunned speechless by Severus' harsh tone.

In the following silence Severus immediately took action. He swooped to the front of the chair and knealt down so he was eye-level with his pupil, both hands on Draco's shoulders as he looked intently into his eyes.

"You are right in thinking I did wrong by hiding your letter from you," he said quietly, his gaze intense enough to have Draco averting his eyes in discomfort. "I should never have opened it, and I regret the decision, witnessing now how much turmoil you are in because of my actions. As for my reasoning, I did it with the slim hope that what Potter wrote was not true, that he was mistaken, and you could carry on and finally have a year of your life where there are no restrictions or expectations placed on you, something for which you most desperately needed. Now that the baby is, as you yourself have said, unmistakeably yours, however, I find myself feeling most reluctant to allow you to run away from this, Draco." He leant forward, determined to have Draco looking him in the eye as he said this next bit, whether reluctantly or not. "You know the levels of my dislike for Potter know no bounds, but hear me when I say that boy has proven himself a Gryffindor. Loath though I am to admit anything positive toward that idiotic attention-seeker, what he is doing with that child is most certainly courageous, and something you should do well to take heed of before you decide to cut and run."

His words hit the mark, if Draco's gusty exhale and feeble nod were anything to go by. Feeling satisfied for now, Severus gave a last firm squeeze to his pupil's shoulders (he would not acknowledge his grip as "comforting"), straightened back to his normal looming height, and carelessly began smoothing out the creases in his ink black robes, allowing Draco time to compose himself.

"Your best course of action at this point would be to take some time to think, Mr Malfoy," Severus continued a moment later, his voice as crisp as the cracklings of the fire behind him. Draco looked up at him, his eyes still full of the desperation and confusion and bitter resentment of before, though not quite as magnified. He jerked his head down in another nod, then pulled himself up to his feet, murmuring, "I will, sir," once he was standing.

Severus nodded his head, feeling satisfied. "Good." He waved his hand absently, and the entrance to his quarters opened again with a quiet hiss. "As your Head of House, I give you full permission to visit outside the castle walls tonight, if that is what you require." He left unspoken the, _because I know how these halls can feel insignificant when faced with such life-altering decisions_. It was not the first time Severus had allowed his student this privilege, and it surely wouldn't be the last.

Draco's eyes widened briefly, and Severus thought he could detect a hint of appreciation in their depths before his student's face shuttered into a familiar, inscrutable expression. "Thank you, sir," he said respectively, then turned and headed for the entrance into the dungeon hallway.

Before he disappeared fully into the darkened corridor, however, Draco paused and said, so quietly Severus almost didn't catch it, "I still don't forgive you for keeping my letter."

That, Severus decided, as he refilled his glass and folded himself once more into his favourite chair, was something he would have to live with.

DMHPDMHPDMHP

_What do I do, what do I do, what do I do ..._

Draco thought this over and over in his head, a fevered mantra to match the tempos of his pounding heartbeat and quickened steps as he wound his way through the drafty dungeons, his hands clenching by his sides, his heart hitting his throat at every creak or whisper the castle made above him. The stone walls on either side of him made him feel jumpy, suffocated as he raced his way toward the upper levels, unheeding of anything other than his insistent need to fill his lungs with fresh, cool air. It was far past curfew, at least half-past eleven, and as a result Draco came across no one, not even Mr Filch's scraggly old cat, something for which Draco was eternally grateful, as the thought of someone else witnessing him coming undone tonight galled him. It was bad enough his Head of House had seen his panic-stricken state, and Draco didn't even want to _think_ about the disastrous meeting with Potter, because thinking about Potter lead to thinking about the baby, and thinking about the baby had lead to Draco's current state, and Draco's current state would ultimately lead to Draco's early demise if _he didn't bloody get out of this castle soon _...

After what seemed an eternity Draco finally, _finally_ pushed his way through the front doors of Hogwarts castle, his feet stumbling clumsily down the stone steps as he closed his eyes in relief, sucking in great lungfuls of cold, night air.

Draco stood there for many minutes, breathing deeply and waiting as the panic slowly diffused, the mantra in his head not sounding quite so hysterical as it had a few moments prior. He still didn't have an answer for the repeated question his mind continued to form for him, but his heartbeat was finally beginning to calm, and with it his jumbled thoughts.

After a few more minutes of standing in front of the steps to the castle, listening to the many sounds of the night, Draco opened his eyes with a sigh, and found himself staring out over the horizon, the lights of the little village located just on the outskirts of Hogwarts' grounds glowing in the distance. Above him, the moon and stars shone brightly, illuminating the pathway which led down past the lake, twisting and turning over to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It would eventually pass the tree line and lead to the tiny magical town, if one were to walk far enough.

His troubled thoughts whispered once more: _What do I do_, _what do I do, what do I do ..._

_What do you do?_ Draco answered his own thoughts, his fringe whipping into his eyes and his robes billowing around him as a breeze suddenly swept across the surface of the lake and up the sloping lawns to where he stood. He finally felt calm and collected, for the first time in a fortnight. _You listen to Professor Snape. You go somewhere and you _think.

A course of action began forming instantly in Draco's mind, and without even considering the possibility that this was not what Snape had had in mind when he'd said "outside the castle walls," Draco pulled his robes more securely around him and began walking determinedly down the cobbled path, his sights set on the horizon, his eyes unwavering from the glowing lights of Hogsmeade village.


	6. Just One of Those Days

**Disclaimer:** Aren't owned by me, I don't get any money, so don't sue, I'm poorer than lint.

**Author's Note:**I'm a horrible, horrible person. I've kept this chapter away for far too long, and I apologise profusely! There are many excuses I could give you, including school starting up and my beta dropping off quite unexpectedly, but they do not make it all right for me to leave my lovely readers and reviewers waiting for so long! Know that it shan't happen again, for I have a new beta, and she is a slave driver! Just know that all your encouraging words made me feel properly guilt-ridden, and are the reason I put off my observation paper to finish the final editing of this chapter myself (it was by far worth it).

**Chapter Six: Just One of Those Days**

_**POTTER AND BABY DAUGHTER AT HOGWARTS: HEARTENING, OR WORRISOME?**_

_**By: Rita Skeeter**_

_Harry Potter, 17, and infant daughter Libby were sighted yesterday morning boarding the Hogwarts Express at platform nine and three-quarters, quelling the many rumours floating around about how our teenaged Boy Hero would be finishing off his final year of schooling. Many members of the wizarding community found the news of the Chosen One's impending return to Hogwarts to be heart-warming. Others, however, find the situation rather disconcerting._

_"It's the wrong message to send, allowing that loose Potter boy to gallumph round the castle with an illegitimate baby on his hip!" Georgina Smith, age disclosed, told this reporter with vigour, while wearing a most scandalous look. "I've a son Potter's age in Hogwarts now, and to think of his fragile, easily influenced mind exposed to such blatant displays of inappropriate behaviour, well ... I'm sure there are more parents out there who feel as worried as I do! What Headmaster Dumbledore _must_ be thinking, to allow this sort of thing to occur right under his nose –_"

_And those are just some of the words Madam Smith had to say on the matter. This reporter then asked the highly respected robe designer and patron of Diagon Alley, Madam Malkin (and close acquaintance to our Mr Potter) – _

Harry folded the newspaper up with a sigh, not even bothering to finish the article. There was no need for him to read the rest; it would all sound the same anyway, and he couldn't even find it in him to feel outraged at that thought. Rita Skeeter's poorly timed article was just an added grievance to what was quickly becoming _one of those days_.

After a horribly restless night, where both father and daughter had had difficultly finding sleep, Harry had awoken at half-past six to the sounds of thunder rumbling through the castle walls. A bleary glance through his tiny two-paned window had shown a landscape reflecting Harry's mood perfectly: stormy skies, a heavy downpour beating relentlessly against Hogwarts grounds, and the occasional bright flash of lightning streaking across the blackened clouds. The perfect setting for his first day venturing into the student population, Harry couldn't help but think.

He should have known that his stormy awakening was only prelude to a trying morning, as not only did the Warming Charm on his water fizzle out most unexpectedly halfway through his shower, but his towel had slipped from its hook and landed in the puddle Harry had created when the bitingly cold water had forced him to jump from the shower in an ungainly leap. He had then slipped quite spectacularly on afore mentioned puddle, the resultant twist to remain upright wrenching something in his lower back. He had hobbled back to his bedroom with much grimacing, wrenched open his wardrobe, then remembered he had yet to unpack his school trunk from the night before. With all the colourful language he could muster in one sentence streaming from between clenched teeth, Harry had then had to dig through all of his belongings, searching for his new robes that were of course located at the very bottom of his trunk, his newly injured back throbbing in protest to his bent-over position.

The shirt, trousers and robes had been absolute hell to put on with his back stinging the way it was, bending over Lydia's cot an even worse experience, and to add insult to injury, his charming daughter had spat up all over his sleeve the moment he'd finished feeding her her morning bottle, as though knowing the last thing her father wanted to do was change his clothes.

The painfully slow task of removing and replacing his robes had almost caused Harry to be late to the Gryffindor common room, where he had been hoping to catch Ron and Hermione before they descended the many staircases to breakfast, and in the end he had half-sprinted, half-limped his way down the small strip of corridor between his rooms and the Fat Lady, studiously ignoring Bower's daft musings over whether or not Harry was perfecting a new dance move.

Hermione had twittered and fussed the moment Harry had stepped through the Fat Lady's portrait hole, her sharp eyes immediately noticing his stiff walking. After much prodding and goading, Harry had reluctantly described his ghastly morning experience, and with a sympathetic look and quick wave of her wand, Hermione had Harry's searing pains suddenly feeling much less excruciating. The Head Girl pocketed her wand, and then proceeded to lecture Harry on the concept of "safe-showering," her fervour so intense Ron had patted Harry consolingly on the back before leading the way out of the Gryffindor common room and down to the Great Hall for breakfast, his sympathy for Harry not strong enough to interfere with Hermione's scoldings.

The trio (not including the baby in Harry's arms) entered the Great Hall, and it was at that precise moment Harry had known his bad day was about to get worse. Every pair of eyes swivelled at his entrance, the owners looking up from their breakfasts and conversations with friends to watch in silence as Harry made his way to the Gryffindor table, his steps faltering for only a second when his eyes, much against his will, briefly roved over the Slytherin table, unable to discern whether a familiar blond was residing there. Sure that the back of his neck was about as red as Ron's hair, Harry had hastily seated himself down on a bench at the Gryffindor table, offered Lydia to the outstretched arms of Hermione, and then had porridge promptly spilled into his lap by the blustering Neville Longbottom sitting next to him. The scolding breakfast food had Harry yelping a few octaves higher than is deemed respectable for a male, and the many people still watching him tittered and giggled. He glared at Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, who were sniggering loudly across the table, before knocking Neville's proffered napkin away from his lap quite pointedly, opting to clean the mess up himself.

Amidst the giggling, guffaws, and stuttering apologies from Neville, Harry failed to hear the tell-tale fluttering above him, and Ron's warning to "duck". As a result, Hermione's daily subscription to the _Prophet_ smacked Harry hard in the side of the head, knocking his glasses off the end of his nose and sending them flying. They landed with a muffled _squidge_ in the remaining porridge that had managed to stay in Neville's bowl, and Harry would have dropped his head to the table in defeat right then, hadn't it been for Lydia's wails of fright as the owls high above them continued to swoop up and down the tables, delivering the morning post.

Wondering what it was he had done to deserve the morning he was having, Harry had fished his glasses out of the porridge, wiped them clean with his robes (dimly registering, as he did so, that he would have to change yet _again_) and slipped them back on, only to see the photograph on the front page of Hermione's _Daily Prophet _staring innocently up at him.

Oh yes Harry had thought then, a pitiful laugh escaping his lips as he resignedly picked up the newspaper and flicked it open, it most certainly was going to be _one of those days_.

Now, back in his bedroom, the photograph on the front page that had had Harry opening the _Daily Prophet _in the first place, caught his eye once more, and he watched ruefully as his black-and-white self ran full out across platform nine and three-quarters, Lydia clutched tightly in his arms, the expression he wore that of intense exasperation and harassment. He gave a wry chuckle when one of the many reporters chasing after him tripped over his own robes and fell gracelessly to the ground, only to be tromped on repeatedly by the mob behind him.

Looking at that picture made Rita Skeeter's article seem all the more ridiculous, in Harry's opinion, and he didn't put too much thought into what that intolerable woman had to say about him. After all, she hadn't even gotten his daughter's name right, proving the woman's incompetence in giving reliable information. Harry wondered absently how the vicious woman had managed to regain her job at the _Daily Prophet, _as he scrunched up the paper and tossed it into the bin next to his desk, smiling in grim satisfaction as the bin burped in contentment afterwards.

"I told you it was a waste of time, reading that tripe," said Hermione from where she sat perched on Harry's trunk, not looking up from her current activity of tickling the giggling baby nestled in her lap. "Rita Skeeter does nothing but cause trouble with that Quick-Quotes Quills of hers."

"Yeah mate, it's all just a load of rubbish anyway," piped up Ron, who was lounging on Harry's bed, finishing off the chocolate biscuits he'd confiscated as contraband from a second-year Hufflepuff on their way back from breakfast. "You shouldn't care what anything that old hag has to write, anyway."

"It seems rather accurate this time, though, by some of the looks I received in the Great Hall this morning," said Harry as he leaned back in his desk chair and stretched his arms high above his head, trying to work out the kinks and pops one acquires after a particularly restless sleep. "You'd think I'd been kicking puppies for sport, some of the glares people were sending my way. And that lady in the article, the one Skeeter interviewed, made it sound as though I'd committed some atrocious crime against humanity."

"Georgina Smith is an old, close-minded, pureblooded witch obsessed with wizarding tradition and her tiresome son, and her words aren't worth a Sickle of your time," Hermione said with a dismissive sniff, and Harry hid a grin. Though she had insisted to Harry the _Daily Prophet_ was a useless read these days, Hermione seemed to have at least glanced through Rita Skeeter's "waste-of-time tripe" earlier that morning, as Harry couldn't recall mentioning Georgina Smith by name.

"Mean-spirited old bat, s'more like," said Ron round a mouthful of biscuit, putting his two Knuts in about the matriarch of the Smith family. "Zacharias Smith seems downright cheerful compared to his dear old mum."

Harry cringed, having met and dealt with the insufferable Hufflepuff boy on numerous occasions. He sincerely hoped he never met Georgina Smith, if what Ron said were the case.

"And anyway, Harry, what does it matter what other people think? You've produced a beautiful little baby, and anyone can see she makes her daddy happy. Yes she does." Her tone turned high and gleeful as she directed the last bit toward Lydia. "Who couldn't be happy with you as their baby?"

"Yeah, that Georgina Smith's just jealous because she has a pathetic wet rag of a son," Ron added, waving around his last bit of biscuit to emphasise his point.

Harry laughed. Really, he knew what his friends were saying was right, and that it _was_ a waste of time, deliberating over the words of a woman he'd never even met before, and most likely never would. Feeling much better about the article, and his awful morning in general, Harry leant back in his chair, crossed his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes with a tired sigh.

"Looks like someone wants to spend time with Daddy," Hermione declared suddenly, after a few comfortable minutes in which neither of the Gryffindors had spoken. Harry peeked his eyes open, and noted with a snort Hermione looked suspiciously cheery as she lifted Lydia up and away from her lap, waving the baby slightly in a clear indication she wanted Harry to take Lydia from her.

"Let me guess, nappy change?" he asked drily, as he dutifully got to his feet and pulled Lydia from Hermione's arms. Hermione smiled at him and shrugged her shoulders, clearly unwilling to help with the gruesome deed.

Ron grimaced as Harry and baby passed him on their way to the nursery. "Urgh, that's rank! What're you feeding her, Harry? Old boots?"

"Your socks," Harry retorted, raising his voice slightly so as the other two could hear him through the open door to the nursery.

Ron chucked a pillow at him in retaliation, which hit the opposite wall next to Lydia's cot, proving the truly _spacious _accommodations Dumbledore had provided Harry and his daughter.

"Quit throwing my pillow round, wanker!" Harry called out, chuckling quietly to himself when Hermione scolded his language with a shrill, "Not in front of Lydie, Harry!"

"How wicked would it be if Lydie's first word was 'tosser'?" Ron mused to no one in particular as he lay himself back on Harry's pillowless bed and contemplated his last biscuit. He received a resounding smack to the back of his head for his troubles, and promptly lost his sweet amongst the bedclothes. "Ow! Merlin, Hermione, it was just a laugh!"

"A laugh that wasn't funny! If any profanity is to come out of this precious baby's mouth in the coming months, I'm holding you personally responsible, Ronald Weasley," Harry heard Hermione say sternly, and he could picture her wagging her finger threateningly in Ron's bewildered face. The scene made him snort again. He listened to Ron's grumbling response with a fondness warming his insides. It was nice to know, that no matter what happened around them or how old they grew, his two best friends would never change.

"Did Malfoy find you last night, Harry?" Hermione called out, abruptly changing subject, and Harry was momentarily distracted from the absolute mess that was his daughter's bum as Hermione's question brought flashes of the disastrous conversation the previous night back to the forefront of his mind.

"Malfoy?" asked Ron, sounding as alarmed as Harry felt. "What about the ferret-face?"

"I ran into him last night during rounds," said Hermione flippantly, though Harry thought he could detect a slight hint of hesitation in her voice. "Did I forget to mention that?"

"Yes, you bloody well forgot to mention that!" came Ron's voice, sounding more aggravated than alarmed now. "I suppose you also forgot to mention that you hexed him into something nasty as well?"

"No, we had a rather civil conversation, actually. He wished to speak with Harry."

"And by 'civil', you mean you told him to shove off and leave Harry alone, correct?"

More hesitation. "Well ..."

"Bloody _hell_, Hermione!"

Harry had a sudden desire to peak back into his bedroom and watch this new argument between his two friends unfold. He refrained, however, by remembering that drawing Hermione's attention back to him would ultimately lead to him having to explain about the encounter with Malfoy.

Ron sounded angry and exasperated as he exclaimed, "What happened to the whole 'protect Lydie and Harry from the ferret bastard' mentality you were spouting off when we were leading the first-years off the train last night?"

"Malfoy made some valid points, and I didn't think it would do any harm to –"

"No harm? Are you mental? Merlin, Hermione, it's _Draco Malfoy_! The git's done nothing but make Harry's life miserable for the past six years!"

Hermione huffed and said in a shrill voice, "Well, he acted as though all he wanted was to have a conversation with Harry, and he was right in saying I couldn't keep them from speaking, and Harry knows how to handle Malfoy on his own, don't you, Harry?"

Hermione's voice called out at the last bit, and Harry could tell from the accompanying silence that both his friends were waiting for confirmation over whether or not Malfoy had shown up the previous night.

"Er ..." The last thing Harry wanted to do was rehash memories of the previous night with his best friends before he'd even had a chance to digest them himself. Therefore, he stumbled around for brief moment, searching for an answer that would both avoid the question and appease Hermione. Suddenly hitting inspiration, he called out, "Doesn't your free hour end in ten minutes?" in his most innocent of voices.

A horrified gasp answered him, and Harry sighed with relief. The thought of possibly missing the beginning of a lesson had Hermione properly distracted, and Harry silently congratulated himself on a job well done as his friend jumped up from his trunk and began flapping her hands at Ron, yelling shrilly for him to hurry up before they were late.

"I'm going, I'm going. Merlin, woman, you'd think the room were on fire the way you're going on!" Harry heard Ron complain. The springs in his bed creaked as the redhead's weight was removed from them, and Ron called out, "We'll catch you at dinner, mate!" as his lumbering footsteps took him to the door leading out to the corridor.

"See you then," Harry said, poking his head out of the nursery door and nodding at his two friends. Hermione waved distractedly as she scurried out into the corridor after Ron, the door and portrait canvas closing behind them with a soft click.

Harry stood in the doorway to the nursery for a long moment, gazing sightlessly into his room as memories from the night before seemed to play out before him. The shock of finding Malfoy standing outside his door, him and Malfoy sniping and sneering at each other, the furious yelling, Harry's admission, Malfoy's stunning emotional breakdown, and then more yelling. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head forcefully before Malfoy's abrupt exit, and the confused and disappointed feelings Harry had felt while watching him leave, could overwhelm him. He refused to allow Malfoy to hold that over his head, no matter whether or not the other boy was there to see. Malfoy had walked away, simple as that, end of story, and Harry had told himself over and over again during the summer that he and Lydia didn't need the blond Slytherin, didn't _want _him. He had moved on from his childish, hopeful wish that Malfoy would see Lydia and instantly fall in love, the way Harry himself had. It was quite obviously not going to happen, and Harry forcibly put the feelings this conclusion drew into the back of his mind where they belonged, and where they could be ignored.

Remus would not be arriving at Hogwarts until later that night, and therefore Harry's schooling would not begin until the following day. That meant he had the entire day to spend alone with Lydia and, determined to make the best of his daughter's first day inside the castle, Harry returned to Lydia's messy bum and said, with a cheeriness that was false even to his own ears, "We'll have a fantastic day exploring the castle all on our own, won't we, petal?"

As always, Lydia didn't answer, though the knowing look she wore was so reminiscent of the father who had walked away from her, that Harry sighed wearily as he thought, _It's definitely going to be one of those days._

hdhdhdhdhdhdhdhdhdhd

Considering the way it had began, Harry's morning alone with his daughter had gone surprisingly well. The storm that had shook the castle walls had eventually dissipated, leaving a cool and grey September day in its wake, and so Harry had spent the late morning hours taking his daughter on a tour of the castle and grounds, pushing her pram in front of him through the deserted corridors as he needlessly pointed out his old classrooms, the room in which he'd first encountered the Mirror of Erised, and the dancing troll tapestry indicating the secret location of the Room of Requirement.

"See that hump-backed witch, Lydie? Ugly, isn't she? That hides a secret passage, right into the cellar of Honeydukes! You don't know what that is yet, of course, but I'll show you all the secret ways in and out of this castle, love. You're going to be just like me when you go to school, sweetling, and just you wait until I tell you about your Granddad Potter and the other Marauders!"

He regaled his infant daughter with tales of his, Ron's and Hermione's adventures during their earlier years at Hogwarts. He showed her the trophy room, where he'd had his first near run-in with Filch; the once forbidden third floor corridor where Fluffy the three-headed dog had resided; the girls' loo in which he and Ron had saved Hermione from the troll; Moaning Myrtle's toilet and the secret passage into the Chamber of Secrets; the lonely old canvas belonging to Sir Cadogan the knight, which was thankfully devoid of him and his pony; and he even pointed out the Whomping Willow when they ventured outside, though he didn't dare get too close, in fear of scaring Lydia.

"Your Uncle Ron and me flew a car into that tree, did you know? An old Ford Anglia. The willow put up a good fight, battered us up well and good before it was all over, and the Anglia chucked us out as soon as it could. As far as I know, it's still running wild in the Forbidden Forest." A thought occurred to him then, and his voice had grown stern as he glanced down into Lydia's pram. "A place which you will never visit, if I have my say. I'll flay Hagrid alive if he brings you into that forest like he did me."

He'd parked the pram under the old beech tree that had once been the Marauder's hang out spot so many years before, and had sat there on a blanket for nearly a half hour, looking out over the vast grounds as Lydia slurped happily on her noontime bottle, speaking softly of the night Sirius had unexpectedly appeared his life, and of the Final Task a year later.

"Bad always comes with the good, Lydie," Harry told his daughter sombrely, looking down into eyes identical to his own. He smiled softly and gently curled a tendril of her soft hair around his finger. "But the good always outweighs the bad, and you, my sweet girl, are by far the best of the lot."

Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures class had ran past the beech tree at that moment, skidding and slipping over the still-wet grass in their haste to retreat, and Harry had laughed out loud when Hagrid puffed into sight behind them, waving his massive arms wildly and hollering out after the third-year students to "Come back, yeh scared buffoons," and, "They wouldn'ta swarmed yeh if yeh'd just avoided eye contact!"

"And that, Lydie," stated Harry, as he returned Hagrid's wave and grin when the half-giant spotted him, "is why you should have your guard up at all times when Hagrid invites you to tea."

While Harry was showing Lydia the Quidditch pitch, already telling her of his plans to get her onto a broom as soon as she could walk, the tiny baby began making the fussy noises which meant she was tired and ready for some sleep. Feeling that he and his daughter had covered the better points of Hogwarts castle and that he too could use with a nice lie down, they returned to their rooms and Harry prepared Lydia for her nap.

Just as Harry bent over Lydia's cot to kiss her on the forehead, there came a muffled knock from the other room, a sound that had Harry sighing in slight disappointment – his own nap would have to wait. With much less gusto than he had used the previous night, Harry approached the entrance and pulled the door open, then fought the urge to grimace when Bower's canvas swung to the side and revealed Malfoy standing in the corridor, his hands clasped behind his back and a slightly less-than-sure-of-himself smirk gracing his pale face.

The boy looked as infuriatingly calm as he had at the beginning of last night and, Harry's valiant effort to keep a look of utmost disgust from his features having failed pathetically, the bespectacled boy scowled heavily at the other standing across from him before he spat out, "What do you want, then?"

"What, no open arms this time, Potter?" The words seemed to escape Malfoy's mouth before he could help it, and a look of chagrin appeared when Harry growled and went to slam the door closed on his pointed face. "Wait – no, I didn't mean it!" the Slytherin quickly placated, and Harry was most displeased when Malfoy hurriedly stuck his leg out in front of him, effectively preventing the door from closing. He felt reassured, however, when the resultant _crunch_ of Malfoy's foot had the boy in front of him pulling back with a yelp, jumping up and down on the spot and hooting in pain.

"Well, it's your own fault, shoving your foot in the doorway like that," said Harry, an amused snort escaping him as Malfoy swore colourfully, hobbled across the corridor and leant against the opposite wall, grabbing his foot in one hand and fanning the injured body part uselessly with his other.

"I didn't think you'd actually_ slam the door on my foot_!" he retorted through gritted teeth, tears of pain leaking out the corners of his eyes as he untied his shoe and slowly pulled it off. The display Malfoy made, one shoe off and one shoe on, leaning against the wall with a foot propped on his knee, both hands now attempting to rub feeling back into the numb appendage, was too much for Harry. He began laughing outright, his chuckles and guffaws only growing in volume when Malfoy shot him a furious look.

"Oh, go ahead and laugh at my pain, Potter," he snapped, before wincing and reverting his concentration back on his foot. "I'm only in absolute _agony_!" he cried out dramatically.

Harry snorted at the Slytherin's antics. "You think that's painful?" he asked, still chortling. "Try giving birth."

Harry's joking manner caught them both off guard, and their eyes shot to each other in surprise. Just like that, both boys remembered the night before, and the reason why Harry had just slammed the feeling out of Malfoy's foot. The atmosphere abruptly shifted, and Malfoy's pitiful whimpering petered into nothing, while Harry's laughter died a sudden and awkward death. They spent a few minutes in strained silence, no longer looking at each other but staring down opposite ends of the corridor, both determinedly avoiding eye contact.

Finally, when the ringing silence and uneasy feeling in the air became too much for Harry to stand, he cleared his throat and said, "Well, as painfully uncomfortable as this has been, Malfoy, I think I'd rather smash my head repeatedly against a stone wall than stand here in your presence any longer, and seeing as my room has four to choose from –"

"You're going to willingly threaten the safety of your few remaining brain functions?" was the snarked reply, followed immediately by, "Bollocks, I didn't mean –"

Harry cut Malfoy off with an infuriating look. Of all the fucking _nerve_. "Don't bother, Malfoy. You clearly don't know when to give up," said Harry tersely, and he turned his back on the blond, not expecting another word from Malfoy. He was therefore caught quite off-guard when the other muttered,

"Apologies, Potter. Old habits die hard, and all that."

The repetition of words he had written nearly a month before had Harry freezing on the spot, his foot hanging in mid air. He'd said he had never read the letter, and if that was the case, then how had Malfoy ...? Harry wondered, as he slowly turned back around and stared at the blond disbelievingly.

Malfoy nodded his head in affirmation to Harry's silent question. "I read the letter last night," he admitted quietly, and Harry watched in stunned silence as he pushed himself away from the wall and tentatively lowered his foot to the ground. When it looked as though the appendage wasn't going to crumple beneath him, Malfoy brushed the wrinkles from his trousers, bent to pick up his previously discarded shoe, and said as he slipped it back on, "Turns out Snape had kept it from me all those weeks before, something along the lines of it being _for my own good._" Malfoy scoffed mockingly, and Harry could clearly see how angry he was with his Head of House."Greasy old bat, withholding my own _letters_. Anyway, he eventually handed it over, and I read it right there in his sitting room. And that's why I've come to see you today. I decided you and I didn't do much constructive communication last night, and I think we really ought to."

_Constructive communication_? Harry thought dumbly. _What in Merlin's name is he talking about? _He wanted to demand to know what Malfoy meant, and why he was staring so expectantly at him, but all that came out was a strangled, "Ehm?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "How articulate of you."

"Oh, sod you!" Harry snapped furiously, what little patience he had left wearing thin in the face of the other boy's arrogance. "I don't owe you anything, Malfoy! I gave you a chance to talk last night, and you bolted the second things became complicated. If you expect me to let you back into my room without any explanation of what happened last night, you can piss off!"

Harry was breathing harshly after his little tirade, his chest heaving up and down as he glared furiously at the Slytherin boy in front of him, his heated stared daring Malfoy to contradict him. His meaning must have been made clear, because Malfoy didn't retort back. On the contrary, he seemed dreary and – dare Harry think it – contrite as he pushed a hand through his hair and sighed heavily.

"You're right, of course," he muttered, glancing up at Harry and smirking ruefully. "I acted a complete arse last night, and I'm sorry. Oh, don't look so shocked, Potter," he snapped impatiently, interpreting Harry's utterly gob-smacked look correctly, "I _am_ capable of knowing when I did wrong, and am man enough to apologise. Don't expect it to happen much more, though," he added hastily, as though Harry would think lesser of his Slytherin qualities for admitting when he was wrong. "I hardly ever am wrong to begin with."

Harry snorted at this. There were more than a few instances he could think of over the past six years in which Malfoy had been wrong. The word "Buckbeak" was on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back, lest the memory of such a traumatising experience set the blond off.

"So, you've admitted you were a total prat last night," he said instead, wanting to get to Malfoy's point. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means," said Malfoy, and Harry was surprised to see signs of nervousness creep into Malfoy's usually cold and impassive demeanour, "that I spent all night thinking, and came to a very important conclusion."

Harry watched, vaguely curious, as Malfoy stepped to the side and bent to pick something up from the stone floor. It was a white something, with a flash of green and a distinct fluffiness to it – Harry hadn't noticed it sitting in the corridor before, but realised, as the blond straightened up with the object clutched in his right hand, that Malfoy must have been holding it behind his back when Harry answered the door, and dropped it to the side when his foot had been crushed.

"I ... well, I ... er –" Malfoy blustered around, his tone unsure and very uncharacteristic of the arrogant Draco Malfoy Harry had attended Hogwarts with for their first five years of schooling. His hands were shaky and hesitant before he abruptly thrust the white object into Harry's hands. "I bought it for her," he finished briskly, shoving his hands deep into his front pockets and taking a step back from the door, his cheeks and neck reddening in embarrassment as he gazed at the floor.

Harry watched Malfoy briefly, amused by the blond's demeanour as he continued to gaze at the floor, shifting his weight from leg to leg and scowling when he realised Harry was still looking at him. Though he absolutely reveled in making Malfoy uncomfortable, Harry finally took pity on the clearly embarrassed boy in front of him, by diverting his attention to the soft object Malfoy had shoved into his hands. He turned it over curiously, frowning slightly as he tried to understand its significance. He went very still when he realised just what it was he was holding.

It was a tiny stuffed plushie – a dragon, to be precise, with a long white snout, clear green eyes, a short neck, round body and a long tail ending with little green stubs Harry assumed were to represent spikes. Its covering was white and incredibly soft to the touch, perfect for a small child to curl up with, and the stubby green wings perched atop the animal's back fluttered gently when Harry's fingers ghosted over them.

"The owner of the shop said it was a popular sell," Malfoy mumbled, and Harry looked up to see the other boy was now watching him instead of the floor, his hands still hidden deep within his pockets. "And it reminded me of her when I saw it," he added quietly, sounding almost reluctant to divulge that last bit.

Harry glanced back down at the little dragon, and indeed saw a resemblance to Lydia within the animal's green eyes and white fur. His throat tightened at the realisation of what this might imply, of what Malfoy purchasing a gift for Lydia could possibly mean.

"I saw it in the window display while walking through Hogsmeade last night," Malfoy continued to explain. His voice was rushed, as though he couldn't wait to get the words out and be done with them. "The shop was closed since I was out after curfew, so I requested a day away from classes from Professor Snape this morning, and of course he gave it to me because he owes me, and so I left after the storm to pick it up. It was the last one the owner had, and bloody expensive to boot, but I couldn't come back here empty-handed, and so I bought it and brought it up here, and was hoping you'd let me back in so we could talk because ... because ... becauseIwanttobeapartofherlife."

The last part of Malfoy's speech was so jumbled and hurried that it took Harry a second to decipher what it was exactly he had said. When he did, his hands went slack in surprise and he dropped the little dragon. He stooped to catch it before it hit the floor, his heart pounding against his rib cage as he took the distraction to allow Malfoy's confession sunk in. The lump in his throat tightened to the point where he wouldn't be able to talk even if he knew what to say, and so he simply gaped at Malfoy, who had pulled his hands out from his pockets and was now openly fidgeting with them, twisting his fingers and pulling at the sleeves of his robes.

"Erm –" Harry finally coughed, attempting to clear his throat, trying to dispel whatever it was impeding his ability to speak, but the lump wouldn't budge, and so he fell silent, waiting anxiously for Malfoy to make the next move.

It was a long time waiting. Malfoy watched Harry then looked away, peered back at him, glanced down at the floor. He pulled on his sleeves, shuffled from foot to foot, peaked out at Harry from under his fringe, then looked away once more. He slipped his hands behind his back and rocked from heel to toes, looked up at the ceiling and sighed, checked down both ends of the corridor and hummed tunelessly. He clicked his fingers and glanced hopefully at Harry one last time, before giving up his pathetic diversion tactics and stepping forward.

"I'm new at this whole peace-offering thing, Potter," he said brusquely, his expression curt even as he pushed his hands through his hair once more. "I'm not quite sure how it goes, but I think this is the part where you say whether or not I can come in, and whether we can work this out."

The tone Malfoy used was infused with his usual nonchalance, but an undertone of what Harry suspected to be hopefulness shone through. That was what helped him make his decision – well, that and the adorable white dragon he held in his hands. Afraid to talk and potentially ruin the moment with a slipped, "It's about time, you stupid arse," Harry wordlessly pushed the door open wider and stood to the side, beckoning Malfoy in with a bend of his neck.

Malfoy gave the beginnings of a grateful look, before he caught himself and hurried to apply the indifferent mask Harry had grown to hate. This time, though, Harry knew exactly how Malfoy was feeling and what his intentions were, and so he didn't keep the triumphant look from his face, nor did he squash the airy feeling in his limbs as the Slytherin boy walked past him and into his room.

Considering the horrible beginning he and Lydia had this morning, Harry thought as he closed the door and turned to face the boy standing in the middle of his bedroom, the afternoon had the potential for ending far better than _one of those days_.


End file.
